


salespeople know (listening is the most important part)

by Mayhem10



Series: The Traveler's Corner [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Civilian Tim Drake, Gen, Harleen Quinzel - Freeform, Magical Realism, The Joker - Freeform, Tim has Different Priorities, What is invasion of privacy ask the Bats, and tonight our villain will be played by, because Batman, with guest appearance by
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2019-03-16
Packaged: 2019-07-13 08:23:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 77,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16014068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mayhem10/pseuds/Mayhem10
Summary: The Traveler's Corner is found by the people who need it at the time they need it most. Timothy Drake, proprietor and current owner, is rather proud of the difference he makes to his customers. Then he returns to the city that raised him.Not all customers are simple. And the past is never truly left behind.





	1. Chapter 1

It’s raining. 

That isn’t a surprise; it’s been raining for weeks now. It’s almost like the clouds have simply grown too tired to hold onto the water, letting it all go with a gasping sigh of relief and sending it pouring down upon the city of Seattle. The park next to his apartment is a mess of mud and water, the green grass that once covered the ground a distant memory. The pick-up soccer game he usually watches from his window hasn’t met in three weeks now. It’s a little depressing.

The front door to the shop opens and Tim looks up from the counter and closes his book, a well-practiced smile stretching across his face. “Welcome to the Traveler’s Corner. Can I help you with anything?” The words are as familiar as breathing, and the woman who walked through the door startles a little, as if she had expected the shop to be empty. 

“No, thanks,” she murmurs quietly, reaching up to tuck a piece of dark hair behind her ear. “Just looking.”

Tim nods. “Take your time.” 

The woman nods back distractedly, turning towards the right and shuffling down the aisle, looking vaguely at the items decorating the shelves. Tim doesn’t know what she sees, but it doesn’t seem very interesting to him. 

The Traveler’s Corner was not a particularly large shop by any stretch of the imagination. On a good day it could reach the size of a video rental store. More often than not it hovered between the space of a coffee shop and a hole-in-the-wall bookstore. Today the walls were a light yellow, sunny and cheerful, giving off a subtle sensation of happiness and peace. The shelves were lower than usual as well. Usually they almost touched the ceilings, hiding the customers from Tim’s sight. Overall, the effect was very open, welcoming in a quiet way. 

Three days ago, the walls had been dark oak and the air had smelled of cigar smoke and the shelves had looked like old antiques. 

A soft gasp comes from the shelves and Tim allows himself a small smile, keeping his eyes cast down at his novel, quietly turning a page. 

“This is…” 

There is a clattering sound, like the woman has fumbled with some form of crockery or such. Tim hears the click of her shoes approach the counter and looks up, hiding his interest with the ease of long practice. “Did you find what you were looking for, ma’am?” he asks pleasantly. 

The woman opens her mouth but is apparently lost for words, reaching out and putting an object on the counter next to the register. Tim doesn’t reach and grab it yet, taking a moment to study her choice. The teapot is fairly small, more an ornamental piece than a useful kettle for preparing hot water. The flower pattern is a bit ostentatious but the small chip on the lid offsets it well enough, making it welcoming rather than disdainful.

Tim looks up. “This is lovely,” he says sincerely. The woman smiles shakily back at him, her brown eyes still slightly wide in shock. Tim tilts his head and subtly studies her expression. Then, his eyes narrowed in concentration, he presses two buttons on the register, the sharp ding ringing out like a gunshot.

The woman jolts, reaching into her back pocket and pulling out her wallet. She nervously tucks her hair behind her ear again. “Um, how much?”

Tim glances at the register. “$9.99.”

“What?” She looks at him in disbelief. “There’s no way! It looks just like my grandmother’s old one and that was worth a fortune.”

Perfect. “Really? What happened to it?”

She grins sheepishly, raising her arm and rubbing the back of her neck. “It got broken actually.” Her smile fades as she continues. “My nana passed away a few years ago and left it to me. I was in an accident on the way back from the funeral, nothing serious really, but it was broken in the collision. I’ve always regretted that.” The echo of sadness rests on her face and Tim clears his throat, bringing her back to the present.

“Well, I’m glad you found this one then,” he says. “And I guess you just picked a good day to come in, because it really _is_ $9.99. Mondays are sale day.” Everyday is sale day, but she doesn’t need to know that.

“Oh my,” she breathes before digging into her wallet and pulling out a ten dollar bill. “I don’t need the change, but can you maybe wrap it up?” she asks hopefully. “Knowing my luck I’ll end up breaking this one on the way home otherwise.”

Tim laughs as he takes the bill. “Not a problem. I’m here to help.”

~~

When Tim is twelve, a hit to the head knocks him unconscious. It shouldn’t be that serious, but he wasn’t paying as much attention to his surroundings as he should have been. While the fire escape had the perfect position to get an amazing shot of Jason kicking a mugger in the face, it was old and decrepit and far too slippery due to the rain earlier in the day. When he had judged it safe to leave without getting noticed, Tim had carefully climbed down the ladder only to lose control towards the bottom, the bar slipping through his fingers. The landing doesn’t break anything, but does give Tim a concussion that lays him out for a month. He can’t exactly hide it from the housekeeper the next morning so he says he tripped walking home from a friend’s house after studying. 

She doesn’t know that Tim has zero friends and _should_ therefore brush the whole event off. How unfortunate. What a shame. Back to business as usual.

What she actually does is call his parents - on vacation in Morocco this time - and inform them that Tim needs to go to the doctor to have his brain function checked.

Apparently this is frightening enough to have his parents rush home, the first time he has seen them in person in months. While his mother - and father he supposes - isn’t the most present parent, Tim knows that she cares about him in her own way. This quickly becomes evident as she proceeds to mother-hen him like she is trying to make up for the first twelve years of his life. Even when he is able to get up and move about without feeling nauseated, his mother declares that he has to wait to be cleared by the doctor before he is allowed to run around the city without supervision.

Tim isn’t exactly pleased by this. 

So when his mom asks him to help her run some errands - strange for her to do anytime, but he assumes the guilt is still having an effect - he steals away from the store and decide to walk around instead of actually helping her like she wants. Yes, it’s petty, but it has been a rough six weeks and he just needs to get away for awhile. He’ll only take a few minutes, he tells himself as he slips out the door.

He walks down the street for a bit, making sure to stay on the main road in case his mother comes looking for him. A sign in one of the shop windows catches his eye and he looks more closely at the scrawling script.

_Help Wanted_  
_Must Find Nothing_

“Weird,” he mutters to himself. Curiosity getting the better of him, Tim gently pushes the door open and sets his life on a different path.

~~

The rain finally stops and Tim knows it is time to go.

~~

The shop takes up residence next to a diner right down the street from the Wayne Enterprises offices and Tim thanks his lucky stars that this time his apartment is located right above the store. Not only does that cut down on travel time, but he also doesn’t have to worry about nosy or irritating neighbors. Plus, the diner makes the most amazingly fluffy pancakes that Tim’s ever seen. 

Something tells him that he’ll probably leave Gotham a few pounds heavier than he arrived.

The first day in the new location, he walks downstairs and winces. Whoever is coming in today has really strange taste in décor. Tim isn’t trying to judge, but the whole post-modern metallic movement has never really been his thing. He sighs and goes through his opening routine, flipping on the open sign and wiping down the windows.

The first customer comes in right as the clock changes to 10:45, the numbers blinking mechanically.

“Welcome to the Traveler’s Corner. Can I help you with anything?”

Thus begins his day. The ways in which people enter the shop are as varied as the things they leave with. Some are curious, some are sad, and some, like this one, are haughty and somewhat conceited. However, they all leave the same, somewhat shocked, somewhat grateful, and somewhat renewed. 

The businessman with his slicked back hair finds his jaw dropping as he discovers his first love’s watch sitting on a shelf, as clunky and cheap as the day the other boy put in his hands. He pays twenty dollars for it without even complaining about the price despite how obviously poor the quality is. Tim grins as he sees the man slip the watch around his wrist as he leaves. 

There are two more customers during the day. One leaves with suspiciously wet eyes and a small book inscribed with the words _To my always dearest_ on the inside of the front cover; the other carries with him a single pink shoe, small enough that it could fit a doll. His wrinkled face is blank as he pays and he walks out the door calmly. He cradles the shoe like it is something precious beyond all measure.

Tim closes for the day after the man leaves. 

Sometimes his job is more painful than he would like. 

~~

“Welcome to the Traveler’s Corner. Can I help you with anything?”

Tim looks over at the shopkeeper as he furtively shuts the door behind him. Her mouth twists in amusement, the twinkle in her eye making her seem younger than her white hair and wrinkled skin would suggest. 

“Uh, no. I’m good.” 

She nods amiably and looks down at the book on the counter. Tim mentally shrugs as he starts meandering through the store, picking up a few things and putting them back after a brief inspection. As he wanders down the aisles he studies the walls and shelves. The store is nice, but it seems kind of…blank.

Bare. 

The walls are a bland beige with no decoration except the shelves themselves, and even they are pretty boring. Tim isn’t exactly an expert in interior design - his own room would probably give most people fits - but even he can tell that the place could use a serious makeover. 

He turns to walks down the second row and catches the eye of the shopkeeper again. She looks curious and he gives her an uncomfortable smile as he hurries down the aisle. He loiters in between the shelves for a few more minutes, looking at the different items. There doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason for the products, some of them obviously cheap while others look like something his grandma would keep locked away in her china cabinet. Nothing really speaks to him though, and he doesn’t have the money to spend on anything anyway. 

Heading toward the door, he calls out an absentminded thanks, but – 

“Wait!”

He turns around, confused as the shopkeeper comes out from behind the counter, a frown on her face.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t you want something?” Her eyes are intense as she looks at him and he has to force himself not to fidget as he answers.

“Um, no? I didn’t really find anything,” he says, rubbing at the back of head in discomfort. “Not that there isn’t some great stuff here,” he clarifies hastily. “Just, none of it is anything I really need?” There’s a good chance that he’ll start rambling if he doesn’t stop, so he cuts himself off, hoping that the shopkeeper isn’t offended.

Her hands on her hips, she stares him down, her expression blank. Finally she smiles.

“What’s your name, honey?”

“Tim,” he answers after briefly considering giving a false name because that’s sometimes necessary when your parents are crazy rich. 

“Well, Tim,” she says with a smile that seems a bit too mischievous for comfort. “How would you feel about a possible part-time job?”

~~

Even though Tim didn’t end up continuing on with photography seriously after high school, his love for it had never changed or lessened. While waiting for customers to arrive it was an even bet whether he would be reading a philosophical treatise or sketching the faces of past shopgoers. The best thing about Gotham was the sheer number of interesting buildings and landmarks and the numerous people that might as well be walking pieces of art themselves.

He hadn’t realized he’d missed Gotham. He hadn’t realized it was _possible_ to miss it.

Most Sundays find him wandering the halls of MoMA or the Gotham Museum of Photography and he goes out of his way to find the smaller art houses that don’t have an online presence. He finds himself picking up his camera more often, rediscovering the play of light along glass walls of office buildings and the deep contrast of shadows dancing down alleys and streets. The shop closing time slowly becomes later and later, and Sundays see him slowly relearning the place he first knew as home. 

When he comes back in the evening, he notices there is always a light on in the WE offices down the way. 

He wonders why anyone would choose to work on a Sunday. Even Batman needs to rest sometime. 

~~

Tim takes the job. 

Or rather, his mother makes him take the job. Tim wasn’t even going to mention it to her, but during her interrogation about _where were you? you just wandered off, that’s_ not _okay, Tim_ it kind of…slips out. It was a weird day, okay?

Regardless, he ends up at Traveler’s Corner every other day after school in addition to Saturday afternoons, at least until the doctor clears him and his school schedule takes over his life again. Even then he still works evenings until the shop closes, honing the customer service skills that he didn’t even know he had. Technically since he's just turned thirteen, he can’t be registered as a formal employee, but with a little bit of paperwork and wheedling he convinces his school guidance counselor that the work can be counted as business independent study.

He does not tell the counselor that the shop seems to be more of a...nontraditional business model.

Joyce – because that is the shopkeeper’s name it turns out – works around his schedule more than he has any right to expect. She becomes the mentor he never knew he needed. He starts spending his free time at the shop rather than frequenting the rougher side of town, listening to Joyce’s stories of her youth in Southeast Asia. His nights out don’t completely disappear but he finds himself moving with more care, studying his perches more vigorously, and learning when the danger makes a trying for a shot suicidal rather than daring. Another fall would leave him unable to work in the shop, something he deems unacceptable. When his parents leave - as they always do - on their trips, he practically moves into the place, arriving right after school and leaving only when the shop’s phone rings, the housekeeper waiting impatiently on the other end of the line to be dismissed.

His entire life, Tim has never felt like he belonged anywhere. Even running after Batman and his Robins, he is a shadow on the wall, unseen by the greatest detective in the world.

Joyce tells him she felt the same when she was his age.

Somehow it makes him feel better.

~~

When Tim celebrates his seventeenth birthday, he celebrates it at Traveler’s Corner. Joyce is the only person there and she sings him happy birthday as he blows out the candle on the giant cupcake she welcomed him with, the smile on her face almost wide enough to match his own. 

She laughs as he grabs a knife to cut the cupcake in half. “Officially an adult today, huh?”

Tim gingerly pulls half of the cupcake onto a small plate, taking care keep the chocolate frosting somewhat intact. The Batman symbol is too nice to ruin just yet. “Yeah,” he scoffs. “A real adult now as opposed to a fake adult.”

A gentle hand on his arm eases him and he relaxes a little at Joyce’s touch. “Sorry.”

“There’s no need to apologize,” she says firmly. “It’s true, you’ve been an adult for a while now. There’s nothing wrong with being upset about it.” 

Tim sighs. “I know.” Grabbing a fork, he stabs it into his cupcake half. “I’m over it.”

Joyce hums noncommittally as she digs into her own piece. They eat in comfortable silence, and Tim sends up a quick prayer of thanks to any deity that might be listening for letting him meet this amazing woman, his grandmother in all but name. When they finish, Joyce grabs the plates and puts them by the register, waving him off when he offers to take them out to the trash. When she sits back down, she looks at him long and hard.

“I want to ask you something,” she finally says, her eyes steady on his. “You don’t have to say anything right now, but I’d like you to consider it, okay?”

Confused but willing, Tim nods. Joyce doesn’t relax.

“How would you feel about taking over the shop?”

The silence only lasts a moment before Tim’s “Yes!” leaps from his mouth.

And Joyce smiles.

~~

Tim has never stocked the shelves. He has never done inventory. When a customer walks out of the store, they always carry something, but somehow that something is replaced on the shelf the next day. The shop never seems to have delivery of new products, nor does Joyce ever take the earnings from the day out of the register to be deposited in the bank. 

The decor of the shop has never changed. It’s still boring and bland and whenever he offers to do some redecorating Joyce just chuckles and says that she’s never had any complaints. 

When Joyce gives him the store, this changes. He changes, too. That was probably been the point all along.


	2. Chapter 2

A month after he arrives in Gotham, he walks downstairs to a shop straight out of Lord of the Rings, a veritable collection of fantasy paintings hanging along the walls and a suspiciously familiar horn propped up against the cash register. Tim can’t help but grin when he finds a hobbit-sized tea table shoved into the back corner of the room, impressive considering the relatively small dimensions he’s moving in today.

He wonders who will come in. 

~~

The jingle of the bell makes Tim raise his eyes, just as it has every time before. The decor has left him pretty interested in what his new customer looks like and he’s not ashamed to admit that he had pictured someone a bit shy and reserved, perhaps a little disheveled and geeky. 

The boy that walks into the shop is...not that.

He can’t be more than fifteen even if his hairstyle looks like it would be more appropriate on a man twice his age. His eyes are cool as they scan the shop, a sharp contrast to the delicate features of his light brown face. Years spent stalking Batman and servicing an abnormally large number of customers with PTSD means that Tim notices when the kid makes note of possible exits and cover spots. He looks familiar somehow, maybe something in the line of the jaw or cheeks, but Tim can’t quite place him. 

He sets down the camera he was fiddling with. “Welcome to the Traveler’s Corner. Can I help you with anything?” 

Green eyes snap to his face and Tim holds back a grin as the teen sizes him up. His fingers itch to take a picture but he manages to control himself. The sense of familiarity grows though and Tim wonders if the kid does modelling or something similar. He hasn’t kept up much with Gotham gossip since he left, only checking in on Batman and the Robins through online communities and the rare hack into restricted systems. There hadn’t been anything else he was interested in remembering so he hadn’t wasted his time.

The kid finally speaks, his expression still stoic. “I’m looking for a gift for my...brother.” 

Tim raises his eyebrow. “You sure? Cause you don’t sound sure.”

Thin lips twist into a scowl. “Your customer service skills are disgraceful. Yes, I am certain.”

Tim lifts his hands in surrender, making sure to do so slowly so as not to startle the kid into doing something drastic. Like punching him. “Okay, okay.” He gestures to the intricately carved shelves that appeared that morning. “Why don’t you browse for a bit and see if anything jumps out at you.”

The kid looks at him suspiciously, but slinks off into the shelves, disappearing without a sound. 

In fact, the kid doesn’t make any sound at all. Tim can’t help but feel impressed as he sees the dark hair flitting between the shelves. He walks quietly himself, but that was simply habit left over from his time wandering the streets of Gotham in the middle of night and he’d trained himself to make a little bit of noise after the first few months of working the shop. Customers don’t like it when the proprietor suddenly appears behind them without warning.

Tim doesn’t go out onto the floor this time, choosing the remain behind the counter. The kid doesn’t seem like someone who would appreciate company while he browses. 

A glare is thrown his way when the kid rounds a corner, but Tim catches the hint of a smile on his face when he sees the hobbit-sized table and chairs tucked away nearby. The shop is never wrong. 

When ten minutes have passed, Tim finds himself looking up from the park photos he developed the other day. A small noise from the shelves catches his attention, out of place after so much silence. 

The kid approaches the counter carrying - 

“Where did you get this?!” 

A T-shirt is slammed down on the countertop, the kid clenching it in his fist so tightly that his knuckles are stark white. His hand shakes. Someone else might not notice, but Tim has worked in sales too long to miss a tell like that. Someone else also might be intimidated by the expression on the kid’s face if they hadn’t seen what Tim had seen growing up, or learned to see beneath the facade of teenagers that think they’re tougher than they are. 

There is the strong temptation to take a closer look at the shirt, but the real and present danger of getting his head ripped off helps him resist the urge.

He shrugs instead. “It came in with our last delivery.” Technically true. 

The kid scrutinizes Tim’s face, frowning harder before abruptly letting go of the shirt and pulling out his wallet. 

“How much?” he demands.

Tim doesn’t even look as he reaches out to press a button on the register. The kid doesn’t look away either, even when the old machine lets out its obnoxious ding. 

A brief glance and Tim answers, “$14.50,” slightly surprised that the cost is so low. 

The kid pulls out a ten dollar bill, and then carefully counts out four singles and two quarters. 

The offer of a bag is waved off. A piece of dark hair has sprung free from its slicked-back place and waves gently in front of the kid’s eyes as he stares down at the shirt. Abruptly, he looks up, his face as blank as it was when he first walked in. Tim manages to stop himself from frowning at the shift in attitude, but it pulls at something in his memory before the kid speaks.

“I - I didn’t find anything for him.”

“Your brother?” Tim clarifies.

“...Yes.” Despite the lack of expression on his face, the kid’s tense shoulders tell Tim that he’s upset, probably more about the lack of present than the item he actually found. 

He’s never done this before, but something tells him he should. He reaches into a drawer a pulls out pen, taking a business card from the stack next to the register. It’s never been touched before this, but Joyce had told them that he would need them eventually. Tim scrawls out a few words on the card, underlines one word twice, and then hands it over to the kid, who takes it with all the suspicion that one might reserve for Poison Ivy’s flowers. 

“Give him this. I can promise him a free purchase, anything he wants from the store if he comes in and shows me the card when he checks out.” He raises his shoulders in a casual shrug. “I know it’s not really a birthday present, but he might like the stuff we have.”

The kid doesn’t answer except to study the card and give a quiet “tch.” Without another word, he turns around and walks to the door.

“Hey,” Tim calls out. “What’s his name?”

The kid doesn’t turn around when he answers, just continues walking and says, “You’ll recognize him when you see him.”

The door shuts behind him with the gentle sound of the ringing bell. Tim huffs.

“Thanks. That helps a lot.”

~~

On a windy day in November, only four months after his seventeenth birthday, Tim is struck by the sudden knowledge that the shop needs to move. It’s a vibrating sensation that starts in his fingertips and slowly spreads up to his chest. By the time Joyce comes in after lunch, he feels like a tuning fork tapped against a table, matching a frequency he can’t quite place.

“Busy day?” asks Joyce knowingly as she puts her purse down on the counter. 

Tim absently scratches at his chest. “Not really. Just a weird day. Feeling a little off.”

Joyce’s eyes sharpen. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Maybe I got too close to Robinson Park last night. Scarecrow was testing out some new gas and I might have caught some residue.” He rolls his eyes. “You’d think he’d learn - the Bats always start their patrol in the public parks. I’m pretty sure there’s a Batcave, like, half a mile away.”

Joyce sighs. “I swear, Gotham is the strangest city I have ever had the pleasure of working in.”

“Well,” Tim chuckles, “you only have yourself to blame. I’m surprised you decided to set up shop here at all.”

“Ah, right.” Her mouth twists a bit and Tim notes the action with concern. Joyce smiles more easily than she frowns, but he’s noticed a pensive expression crossing her face more and more often during the past couple of weeks.

“You alright?”

Her strained grin softens and she gives him a real smiles when she says, “I’m fine, Tim. I just…” She hesitates a bit before pulling her shoulders back. “I think it’s about time I tell you something.” 

Perhaps someone else wouldn’t notice the tremor in her voice. But Tim is not someone else. As Joyce fondly noted when he first started at the shop, in another time he would have been a mini-Sherlock Holmes, solving crimes with a keen eye and keener mind. He had also joked back that he would be nowhere without his Watson. So Tim, his eyes intent on her face, makes note of the stress lines around her eyes, the tension in her jaw, and draws the obvious conclusion.

The first thing Tim does is freeze, a thrill of panic rolling down his spine. Joyce must be able to see it in his eyes because she quickly comes around the counter, pulling him into a tight hug. He lets himself cling to her for a brief moment before pulling back and grabbing her hands. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing is wrong,” she assures him, squeezing his hands gently. “This isn’t necessarily a bad thing, it’s just… a bit difficult for me. It was hard for me the first time, but now I understand how difficult it must been on this side, too.”

Tim allows himself a weak chuckle. “Honestly, Joyce, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I know,” she says. She takes a deep breath before looking him directly in the eyes. “You’re gonna leave me in a couple of days.”

“Uh, what?”

“You’re gonna leave me. It’s okay. I’ve been expecting it for a while now.”

“But I won’t - !”

“You will and you _need_ to, Tim. I know you’ve noticed the store changing. Haven’t you?”

“I - ” 

The answer is yes. Soon after Joyce turned the shop over to him officially, he began to notice small things that he never registered before. The obvious weirdness had always been there, but in a city like Gotham weird was normal and normal was concerning. Unless it threw a batarang and involved prepubescent teenagers beating up supervillains at the witching hour, it probably wasn’t worth mentioning. So when the walls of the store were white one day and brick the next, he let it go. The changing shelves and decoration he let go as well. But there are only so many things you can ignore. 

Joyce sighs heavily. “Traveler’s Corner has its name for a reason, Tim. Sometimes, it simply has to go. And the owner must go with it.”

Oh, Tim thinks, letting the wave of relief wash over him. “That’s fine,” he says, “I don’t mind moving. Just give me sometime to get some things in order and we can head out to wherever is next on the list.” He lets go of her hands to reach for his bag and continues. 

“How exactly do you know where to go? Is it a compulsion or is there a method - ”

“Tim.” Joyce says, quiet but firm. It stops him and he looks over to see sorrow etched across her face. He knows what she is going to say before it even makes its way to her mouth. 

“I’m not going with you.”

He wants to argue with her. There’s no logical reason why she can’t come and he can’t imagine working in the shop without her, not after the past five years of learning at her side. A slight pain makes him look down and he distantly notices fingernail imprints sunk into his palm. 

No further words are exchanged. Only a gentle hug and a piece of paper slipped into his hand with an address written in Joyce’s sloping cursive. The door jingles as it swings shut behind her retreating form and Tim lets out a shaky breath, hands braced firmly against the counter for support. He allows himself ten minutes to gather himself. Then he straightens, opens his eyes, and fixes his mind on the future. He learned this lesson long before Joyce ever entered into his life.

Everyone leaves.

~~

Harley Quinn comes into the store on a Thursday. 

Tim doesn’t recognize her at first. The white face paint and heavy makeup that characterizes her alter-ego, not to mention the harlequin bodysuit, do a good job of rendering her a completely different person when she is out of uniform. She gives him a small smile when he meets her eyes and immediately heads into the shelves. It is when he only sees the top of her head that he is struck by the realization of who she is. The pigtails are fairly distinctive.

His cellphone is on the counter and it would only take a few seconds to pick it up and dial 911. Quinn would be long gone by the time anyone arrived, but he would have done his due diligence. 

But…

He doesn’t pick up the phone. Instead, he waits patiently at the counter, sticking his face in a book and ignoring his customer like a pro. Sometimes that’s what you need to do to be an effective salesperson.

Harley hums quietly as she wanders slowly between the shelves, the tune a hauntingly beautiful melody that reminds Tim of nights sent perching on rooftops and fire escapes, watching the night sky for the bravest stars to shine through the smog. He sways slightly to the sound, letting himself enjoy it. It stops for a brief moment, jarring him out of his reverie, before beginning again, at a slightly slower tempo. 

Eventually Tim actually gets caught up in his book, so he doesn’t notice when Harley Quinn, one of the most frightening fiends to grace Gotham in its long and brutal history, catches her breath and lets a tear fall from her eyes. He doesn’t see her shaking hand reach out and gently grasp a small bell, the kind that one would imagine hangs from Santa’s sleigh. Nor does he register Harley’s spine straightening as she gathers herself, closing her fingers around the bell and slowly walking towards the counter. 

However, a quick tap against the wooden top of the counter knocks him back to reality and he glances up to see a perfectly composed Harleen Quinzel looking back at him.

“This please.”

“Absolutely. Will that be all?”

“Yes.” 

“That’ll be $12.35.”

“Perfect.”

A quick exchange of cash and Harley Quinn walks out of Traveler’s Corner, head held high and hands clenched white around the small bag she carries. Twenty minutes later the scream of sirens echoes down the street and Tim, with resignation, sighs. 

~~

Tim is walking back from a nearby movie theater when the inevitable occurs.

A gunshot bursts through the quiet evening and Tim stops, backing up against a nearby wall. A quick assessment of his surroundings shows an alley close by with a dumpster and he quickly jogs over and tucks himself away in the shadows where dumpster meets the wall. Muscle memory kicks in quickly and he stills, slowly his breathing.

A little over a minute later, he hears footsteps pounding against the pavement in a sprint and a man rushes across the mouth of the alley before coming to a panicked stop, head turning frantically from left to right. The ammo belt and dark clothing suggests gang member, the missing weapon and frenzied running indicate a violent interruption.

A soft scuff catches Tim’s attention and he rolls his eyes before crouching down further.

“I know you’re there!” screeches the man, pulling a knife out from God knows where. “Mr. Penguin’s gonna get ya for this, you flying freak! Next time you ain’t gonna know what hit ya! He’ll kill ya!”

Dramatic much, Tim thinks.

“Really?” echoes an amused voice from above before a body drops from the sky, landing solidly in front of the shaking minion and languidly straightening. A gun is held loosely in his right hand as the other rests easily on his hip, giving off an aura of ‘ _don’t give a fuck_ ’ if Tim has ever seen one. The military style of his outfit is only disturbed by the dark red color scheme and the weird helmet that covers his head, leaving two white eye slits the only indication of a face behind the mask. 

“I’d love to see him try,” the vigilante purrs before executing a beautiful roundhouse kick to the gang member’s head, sending him reeling to the concrete. When the guy groans and tries to crawl away, the vigilante lets out an exasperated sigh before pulling him up and pistol whipping him across the head, letting him fall to the ground fully unconscious. 

Which leaves Tim in an awkward position as it turns out. The man in red - red mask, maybe? - doesn’t seem to have noticed him yet, but any sudden moves might lead to - unfortunate outcomes. He grimaces as he slowly uncurls from his crouched position, making sure to scuff his shoes a bit in the debris at his feet. 

“The kitty finally coming out of its hidey-hole, then?” The red mask says, sarcasm dripping from his lips as he pulls restraints from his belt and begins tying up the gang lackey, not even deigning to turn his head.

“Excuse me for exercising caution around the crazy people,” Tim dryly replies. “Next time I’ll just run out into the middle of the gunfight to make things interesting for you.”

Red mask pauses in his knot-tying and Tim can hear the grin in his voice. “Oh, kitten’s got some claws!” 

“Sure,” he says. He doesn’t say that ‘kitten’ is fairly well-versed in martial arts and general weaponry as well, but considering what red mask likely does on a nightly basis, eh, he might as well be a kitten in comparison. 

Red mask finishes restraining the unconscious man and throws him over his shoulder, shooting a grappling hook to the roof and reeling himself up to a third story fire escape on the building. Tim watches pensively as red mask proceeds to hang the other guy from the platform, his movements sharp and professional. 

Whispers around the neighborhood had mentioned other small-time vigilantes in Gotham City but Tim had lost track of who came and went while he was out of the city. Being this close to Crime Alley red mask was likely homegrown, but the color motif was throwing him off as the Bats were notoriously found of either black or a mix of primary colors that Tim had personally always seen as tempting fate. Not to mention Batman didn’t tolerate people making waves in his territory, and red mask was clearly making big moves if he was taking on the Penguin’s operations. The goon had mentioned a next time, implying that this had happened before, so it was completely possible the Penguin had seen multiple deals disrupted by this guy, which would invite further retaliation by his minions and business partners. Logically, Batman had to have at least attempted to curb red mask’s activities or, a more interesting possibility, condoned his actions. So who...

“You gonna stand there all night, Headlights?”

Tim raises an eyebrow as red mask slides down his grappling line, leaving the Penguin’s man twirling slowly overhead. “Headlights.”

Red mask lands a few feet away and shrugs as he dislodges his hook with the twist of his wrist. Tim barely catches the button he presses on the underside of the grappling gun. “You’re standing there like deer waiting for a car crash. What, you waiting for me to walk you home?”

It’s tempting, but…

“No, thank you. I think I’ll be fine from here.” 

“Suit yourself,” says red mask, grabbing what looks like a taser from his belt. “Try not to get hit by a car though. I don’t wanna deal with the mess.” With that parting shot, he fires off his grappling gun, running behind the cord before pulling off and into the air above the nearby apartments. 

“Vigilantes,” Tim mutters, unwillingly amused. 

He catches a flash of red out of the corner of his eye as he finishes his walk home, only once or twice, but he still has to bite back a smile. Whoever red mask is, he definitely has a bit of Bat in him because you don’t learn discreet grapple-gun handling like that unless you’ve undergone some specific training. 

When he stops in front of his shop, he takes his time getting his key. He unlocks the door and opens it, but before going inside he looks up at the rooftops surrounding him. 

“Thanks for the escort home, red mask!”

There’s silence for a moment before a sullen voice responds. “It’s Red Hood, you idiot! Do you live under a fucking rock?”

Tim grins. “I was out of town for a while. Have a uneventful patrol, Red Hood.”

He shuts his door triumphantly. Vigilantes. Always so invested in their branding.

~~

_Dear Joyce,_

_I just arrived in Macon, Mississippi yesterday and I don’t think I’ve ever been so melancholic in my life. Gotham was always so alive, even in the roughest parts of the city. This town...it’s dying. Almost all the people who live here are elderly and the young ones are children who have stayed to take care of their parents or who feel that they just can’t leave._

_A young girl came into the shop and left with a journal that had her name on it. I don’t know why it was so important to her - she was only nine or ten - but she started sobbing when she saw it. I don’t want to know what would make a little girl cry like that._

_It’s quiet in the shop without you. I don’t know if I’ll ever really get used to it, but I understand that you have your reasons. As long as you keep writing, I’ll leave it alone._

_Tell your crocheting club that I loved the holders they made for my camera lenses! Now I have a little rainbow army on my dresser._

_Your affectionately,_  
_Tim_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I...got a job??? I think?? I start writing again and magic?? I am currently very happy and hopefully that will keep me writing! Thank you to everyone who's read this so far and I hope you enjoyed this next chapter! Let me know what you think!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here, we meet someone that Tim is...familiar with.

_My Dear Tim,_

_The winters in Massachusetts are usually very hard, so I’ve sent along some new hats and mittens for you. The girls from the crochet club are working on another project for you but I’m supposed to get keep it a surprise so you’ll have to wait until the next post arrives! We’re also starting up a book club, but one of the ladies is insisting we start with Shakespeare so I guess we’ll see what we end up with._

_I do miss our afternoons together in the shop, but I know you are doing so well continuing on the mission of Traveler’s Corner in your own special way. Everything must change in its own time._

_My favorite town? Would you say I was cheating if I said Gotham? After all, if I had never landed in Gotham, I never would have met you, dear. But I suppose other than here, my favorite place must have been Moore, Oklahoma. With all the storms coming through there, people are always losing things. It’s so nice to see their faces when they find some of them again._

_Oh, and I took your advice and am looking for apartments closer to the business district. I know you’ll feel better once I’m in a safer area of town, but don’t worry so much! I can take care of myself - I’ve been doing it for fifty years!_

_All my love,  
Joyce_

~~

Dick Grayson is standing four feet in front of his counter. In his hand, Tim sees something that looks very much like the business card he had given out to that dark-haired teenager two weeks ago.

Shit. Dick Grayson’s brother. That was Damian Wayne. Batman’s kid. Robin 4.0.

Of course. 

The last time Tim had seen Grayson, he had been soaring off the police station roof into the night sky, one of the final times Tim had gone through the trouble of finding a dark corner on the roof of the cafe across the street so that he could get a candid shot of Robin - Nightwing in name but Tim would always think of him as the first Robin - leaping into the city and leaving behind Commissioner Gordon with his trademarked exasperation stamped across his face, leaving his mustache with a spastic twitch. 

The original Boy Wonder has grown since then. The startlingly white grin is the same one that Tim saw beaming from his bronzed face across ballrooms during Wayne Enterprise parties that Tim was forced to attend as a child, even if the ready laughter in those deep blue eyes has gone missing in the intervening years. 

Eyes that are strangely intent as they study Tim. 

“Hi, my name is Dick and, uh, my little brother got me this card here? He said it was a gift card, but - ”

Tim waves off his explanation. “No worries, I remember. Your brother about five foot six, dark hair?”

“Looks like he wants to murder you,” Grayson finishes wryly. “Yeah, that’s the one.”

Tim grins. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but...”

Grayson snorts. “Believe me, I’ve heard it all in every variation. He’s a good kid down deep, just - not very personable.”

“What teenager is?” 

“True.” Grayson holds out the business card and Tim shakes his head.

“It’s fine. Take a look around the shop and when you’re ready just bring your purchase up to the counter and I’ll check you out.”

He picks up his novel as Grayson starts to wander through the thin steel shelves, which honestly seem like they might collapse at any moment. Tim forces himself not to tap his finger against the cover, a nervous gesture he’s never quite been able to get rid of. 

Once upon a time, Tim would have been thrilled to be in the presence of Dick Grayson. Hero worship was an understatement when describing how much young Tim looked up to the other boy, even if the terminology was unusually on the nose. It’s strange to see him now, a man that walks comfortably in his own skin, made strong by loss and experience that can only come through meeting your limits and pushing past them into the unknown. In hindsight, there is a clear division between the Nightwing Tim had last seen, fighting and furious with Batman, and the Nightwing that came back from Bludhaven at some point in the intervening years, calm, collected, and wiser. He chances a quick look and is startled to catch Grayson looking back at him furtively, glancing away immediately once he notices Tim’s attention. 

Puzzled and a little overwhelmed, Tim says, “I’m going to the back for a second so just call out if you need anything.”

A hum of affirmation comes from behind the shelves. Leaving Grayson to his browsing, Tim lets out a breath as he steps into his office and shuts his door, collapsing into his chair and groaning softly as he rubs at his temples.

“What are the odds?” he murmurs. Gotham must have shrunk while he was away because running into three vigilantes in as many weeks is pushing the bounds of coincidence more than he’s comfortable with. Plus, if his suspicions about Red Hood are correct, then they all have a connection of some sort with Batman on top of everything else. The hum of curiosity has already awoken in the back of his mind and it takes more effort than usual to subdue it, a sign that things are already spinning out of his control.

“ _Why_?” he groans. “We were doing so well.”

He’d left behind that world when his parents died, when he’d realized that vigilantes were Romantic with a capital r. Oracle had been getting wise to his information gathering, Batman had found a new Robin to help him recover from Jason’s death, and Joyce needed more help around Traveler’s Corner. It had been time to let the Bats go. 

Unfortunately, that doesn’t mean the itch to investigate doesn’t rear its head - especially not when circumstances are practically begging for it.

A hesitant knock on the counter draws him to his feet and he pokes his head out to see Grayson wave at him with a somewhat fixed expression. Tim nods as he steps behind the register. 

“Were you able to find something?” he asks congenially, grabbing a bag from under the counter.

“About that,” Grayson says. He places a book face down on the countertop and looks Tim directly in the eyes. “Where did you get this?”

The book is older, worn in a way that suggests it has been lovingly read and re-read in its time, and Tim bets that there is an inscription somewhere in the pages written during a time now lost. 

Grayson waits steadily for a response.

“We get delivered things from all over the place. I’m honestly not sure where this one came from.”

“Check your inventory then.” It is an order, not a request, and Tim suddenly recalls the scandal that had whispered through the Gotham elite when Dick Grayson, ward of Bruce Wayne, had decided to join the police force. 

“I’m sorry, sir, but the origin of items aren’t noted during the inventory process,” he states firmly, giving no leeway. Considering the fact that there is no inventory process to begin with, it’s not necessarily a lie. However, the shifting storm in Grayson’s eyes is something Tim doesn’t really want to mess with.

Time to change tactics then. “Might I ask why?”

The unexpected question derails Grayson from his growing ire. “Why?”

“Why you need to know where it came from? That’s not a question I often receive from my customers.”

Surprisingly, Grayson’s expression softens. “I know where it came from...I just wanted to know how it got here.” His eyes drift to the side, a hint of embarrassment coloring his cheeks. “I was...not expecting it to still be intact, honestly. I thought he - ”

He stops abruptly and shakes his head. “Anyway, I’m sorry about that.” He holds out the business card that Tim had almost forgotten about, and Tim takes it, flipping it over to its backside.

 _even if he can’t find the right gift - a brother never forgets a birthday_

Tim flashes it at Grayson with a grin. “He didn’t forget at least.”

“True,” Grayson chuckles, a thoughtful look in his eyes. “Neither did, actually.”

“Real brothers, then,” he says firmly, slipping the book into the bag, careful not to turn it over and see the cover. As far as Tim knows, there are only two current wards under Bruce Wayne and his research had shown that Robin number three was a girl when she operated under the moniker, but perhaps there were secrets even he wasn’t aware of. Whatever reason Grayson had to hide it, Tim would respect. He’s done with that part of his life.

“Yeah,” Grayson says distantly before returning from wherever his mind had wandered. He takes the bag and hovers uncertainly for a moment. 

“Thanks,” he finally says. Gesturing to the shelves, he adds, “you have a really cool store here.”

Tim beams. “I know.”

Nightwing walks out of Traveler’s Corner and Tim allows himself a sigh of relief, relaxing his shoulders and stretching his neck where the stress had wound it tight with tension. 

“Please let that be the last of them,” he asks the ceiling, pleading. “I can’t handle Batman coming in here. I really can’t.”

~~

Tim purses his lips as he finally steps forward. He’s been standing outside the doors for the past ten minutes. The guard started sending him suspicious glances about seven minutes ago and if he waits much longer there is the strong possibility that she’ll call the police - she might even get a rapid response, if only because of the location. 

The bright white letters at the top of the building look down on him mockingly and Tim grimaces one last time before walking through the revolving doors. The man at the front desk barely looks up before dismissing his presence. 

Tim smiles politely. “I have an appointment with Dr. Byeon scheduled for 3:30. Could you please call up and see if she’s ready for me?”

The disbelief is evident as the man scrutinizes his outfit, a pair of loose jeans and a dark green button-up. To his credit, he makes no comment, only picks up the phone and dials an extension.

“Hi Taylor, I have a man here for Dr. Byeon. Yes, his name is…”

The man looks at him expectantly.

“Tim Drake.”

“Tim Dra-” Eyes widening, the man stares at him, frozen.

Polite smile still plastered firmly on, Tim tilts his head questioningly.

“No, I - I mean, yes, of course - I will verify and send him up. Right away!”

Flustered, the man hangs up the phone with fumbling hands. “Uh, sir, I just need to, um, verify your identity so if you could please, uh, p-provide some identification?” 

Suppressing the urge to roll his eyes, Tim pulls out his wallet and hands over his driver’s license, along with his Drake Industries issued ID card. Every year on April 15th, it arrives in his mail, no matter where he might be. Tim would be impressed by the tenacity if it wasn’t so annoying.

“Um, right,” stammers the man, clearly out of his depth. “You are cleared to go up, M-mister Drake.”

“Thank you.” He waits a minute, staring at the man expectantly. The man stares back. “My ID?”

“Oh, right!” 

The elevator ride to the penultimate floor is as mind-numbing as it was when he was a child, the music incredible and _depressingly_ the same. He’d give anything to avoid this, but he’s already been putting it off longer than is wise. 

“Timothy,” acknowledges Dr. Byeon when he walks into the office. “Thank you for meeting with me today.”

“Not a problem,” he says, pulling out a chair and settling himself in. “I don’t have much time though, I had to close down for this and I don’t have anyone to fill in for me.”

Dr. Byeon looks up with interest, grabbing a stack of papers. “Ah yes, your store. How is that going?”

Tim smiles pleasantly. “Very well, thank you for asking.”

“Very good.” She clasps her hands on the desk and peers at him over the rim of her glasses. “Have you given any further thought to coming on in a more active role at Drake Industries now that you’re back in Gotham?” She raises her hand before he can say anything. “You’ve made your opinion on a top position very clear and I don’t feel the need to rehash that with you; however, there are other roles that would be a good fit for your skills.”

“I don’t even have a college degree,” Tim notes dryly.

She rolls her eyes. “If you aren’t almost done with that online Gotham U program - which I can only assume you _think_ I am unaware of - then I will not only eat my own hat, but every hat I can find in this building.”

He didn’t think she knew about that in fact, but that will teach him to underestimate her ability to pry information from institutions that legally are obligated not to provide said information. 

“I’ve been told you’re doing quite well considering your time constraints. A business degree will be very useful, too, no matter where you end up.”

Honestly, Tim wouldn’t be surprised if she knew his GPA at this point. “I try my best. Most of the material is fairly intuitive, but I consider it something worth pursuing for now.”

“There are quite a few places at DI you could put that knowledge to use,” she presses, her hands steepled beneath her chin. 

Rather than give a verbal response, Tim simply raises an eyebrow. Dr. Byeon is far too sophisticated to huff, but she can’t hide the slight downward twitch at the corner of her mouth. 

“Tim, I know that you are dedicated to your store. Your parents built Drake Industries from the ground up and I’m not at all surprised that you decided to run your own business, regardless of how... niche it may be. But just because you have other commitments doesn’t mean you can’t be involved in the legacy they left behind for you.” 

Sometimes Tim forgets that Dr. Byeon knew his parents before they became _the_ Drakes, back with they were just Jack and Janet and she was just Eun-seo. After their deaths, she had been the only member of the Drake Industries board to support his early emancipation, actively helping him navigate the legalities of the process while ensuring the Drake property and assets would remain in an untouchable trust until Tim reached the age of twenty-two, a time that was rapidly approaching. 

Picking absently at his palm, Tim says, “I understand what you’re saying. Really, I do. I just don’t know how I can separate my time like that, or even if I want to.” He makes a sweeping gesture across the office. “This is something that I may have been raised for, but it’s not part of the life I live now. I’m not sure it’s something I want to have in my life at all.”

She purses her lips. “I don’t have to tell you how good you would be in whatever role you choose, do I? I thought we went over this in middle school.”

They had in fact gone over that in middle school. There had been a powerpoint involved. “It’s not about that and you know it. I can’t leave my current business, nor do I want to. And there’s no guarantee that I will be in Gotham for good. My business sometimes takes me away with very little notice.”

“I’m well aware of that.” Her mouth quirks up. “I have missed you though, Tim. I’m glad you’re back home.”

A warm feeling blooms in his chest. “I’m glad to be back, too, Aunt B.”

She smiles softly. “You haven’t called me that in a long time.” She looks at him gently for a moment and Tim has to clench his toes to stop himself from fidgeting under her gaze. When she speaks, it is with great care. 

“Your parents would be proud of you, Tim. Despite what you may think, they would be so proud.”

Jack and Janet Drake had seen him exactly ten more times for three weeks or less after his concussion. To their credit, they had called more often and shown a passing interest in his work at Traveler’s Corner, and his mother in particular had quizzed him on his schoolwork and general business lessons she expected him to learn as a shop assistant. The last thing she had told him was that he was showing great promise. They were going to start introducing him to the logistics side of DI when they got home from Haiti. 

“I guess we’ll never really know,” he finally says.

They sit in silence for a minute. Finally Dr. Byeon says, “How do you feel about Human Resources?”

“Aunt B!” Tim exclaims in exasperation.

Dr. Byeon chuckles, but asks wryly, “Can you at least promise me to think about it? There’s space open in project development right now, a lot of planning new ideas for Drake Industries moving forward. I respect what you do, Tim. I really do. You know that. But I also know how large your potential is to do incredible things for this world, especially if you have a vehicle like this company. I don’t want to see you limit yourself because you’re afraid of change.”

He can’t help but laugh. “Change has never been the problem.”

She studies him gently, noting the differences between the seventeen year old who left Gotham City in a bitter whirl and the twenty-one year old that calmly took his place upon his return. 

“No. No, I suppose not.”

~~

_Dear Joyce,_

_I’ve never lived by the beach before and I never want to again. Give me good old concrete any day of the week over this stupid sand people are always tracking everywhere. I swear, if another beach bum comes into the shop and shakes the salt water out of his hair, I’m gonna lose it. I know, I know, they’re the customer and the customer gets what the customer needs, but seriously? It’s called common courtesy._

_I have actually tried to pick up surfing though. Paddle-boarding was pretty simple so I figured I might as well try to challenge myself. I thought that it’d basically be the same as skateboarding, but the water makes it a totally different game._

_Speaking of which, how have the ice skating lessons been going? I’m not expecting a triple lutz, but please tell me you’ve been learning how to spin. I would pay money to see that in action, but a picture will do in a pinch - even if I can’t take it myself!_

_Also, I’m already getting the feeling that it’s time to move on. Don’t know where yet but I’m thinking of getting a map and just throwing darts at it to see what pops up. Maybe I’ll end up in Alaska next, get a taste of real winter instead of this 60 degrees nonsense - everytime I see people wearing sweaters here I die a little inside._

_Yours affectionately,  
Tim_

~~

Timothy Drake meets Bruce Wayne at a gala when he is seven years old. He’s known who Mr. Wayne was for a long time, as long as he can remember, because his mother had pointed out the big, sad house next door as soon as he began going outside and said, “That is our neighbor’s house, Timothy, where Mr. Wayne lives. Now, I don’t want you to go exploring over there, okay? It’s not polite to intrude where you aren’t wanted. Do you understand?”

Tim had nodded his head. Even then, he had felt the gloom hanging over Wayne Manor like a blanket, muffling everything inside. Every once in a while he saw the butler working outside in the rose gardens, but he never quite gathered the courage to wave to him, instead finding ways to play quietly so as not to disturb the man’s solitude. 

So when Tim’s father pulls him forward and boisterously laughs, “This is my son, Timothy. Bright boy, a bit quiet though,” it doesn’t feel so much like a first meeting as a reunion after a long time away. Mr. Wayne leans down, the fake smile with too many teeth softening to one that reminds Tim more of the butler he sometimes sees through the gate. 

“Timothy, huh? Are you having a good time tonight, Timothy?”

Tim carefully considers the question before nodding solemnly. 

“Really?” Mr. Wayne asks, a teasing note in his voice. “What’s your favorite thing so far?”

Tilting his head, Tim thinks before leaning in and whispering, “There’s a game of jacks happening under the buffet table. It looked really fun but my mother told me to leave the tablecloth alone and come say hi to people.”

“A game of jacks?” Mr. Wayne whispers in response. “That does sound like more fun than talking to adults.”

A cough comes from above. “I don’t mind talking with adults,” Tim answers normally, leaning back. Along his neck he can feel his mother’s watchful gaze, penetrating and dissecting. She’ll want to go over his behavior tonight when they get home and the better he is, the quicker they’ll finish. Maybe he’ll even have time to finish the book he had started yesterday afternoon. 

The openness on Mr. Wayne’s face shutters closed and when he stands up, Tim recognizes the fake person mask is back, the one with the too wide smile and empty eyes that he sometimes sees on his mother when she comes home from a hard business meeting. 

“I can see that,” Mr. Wayne says with a grating laugh. “Jack, you certainly do have a brilliant little boy there. If I’m not careful I think he might steal Wayne Enterprises right out from under me!”

His dad chuckles, putting his hand on Tim’s shoulder and giving him a fond shake. “Don’t worry, Mr. Wayne. If we have anything to say about it, he’ll be too busy running DI to come after you.”

Mr. Wayne smiles down at him, not a hint of the real him visible, and states, sending shivers down Tim’s spine, “Oh, I’m sure he will be formidable.”

Tim spends the rest of the evening acting like a living doll as he stands next to his parents, something to be pinched and cooed over, which he finds not only boring, but also embarrassing. Mr. Wayne doesn’t look at him the rest of the evening and he only sees the man’s new ward, the hottest topic for Gotham elite gossip, for a brief moment as the older child peeks out from under the buffet tablecloth before making a run for a potted plant in the corner. The tuxedo looks wrong on the other boy and Tim remembers how much more happy he seemed in his Flying Graysons suit. He remembers everything about the night he went to the circus, including seeing Mr. Wayne give Dick Grayson a hug, so he knows that Mr. Wayne isn’t bad, even if he does wear the fake person mask sometimes.

He never forgets the first time he meets Mr. Wayne. And he never forgets there’s something real behind the mask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I start my new job tomorrow!! This first week is training and stuff, but I'm going to meet everyone and hopefully everything goes well! *fingers crossed*
> 
> Also, I appreciate everyone who's left kudos and comments on this fic so far. It definitely helps the ideas keep flowing and since I don't exactly know where I'm going, that is awesome! Feel free to leave any questions too ^_^


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes things happen that you don't expect. Or want. Tim just wants to chill, is that too much to ask?
> 
> (Of course it is.)

_Dearest Tim,_

_I saw your gentleman friend the other day while walking home from choir practice. He does make it difficult to find him with that outfit, doesn’t he? There are only so many large flying creatures in Gotham though - I haven’t seen the little one in a while though. I certainly hope nothing has happened to them._

_I landed my first single loop on Tuesday! My instructor was very impressed. She said that most people my age don’t have the courage to leap very high in case they fall and break something, but I took those calcium pills for a reason I told her. If a fall is going to take me out, then it better be a big one!_

_Speaking of falls, autumn on the West Coast is particularly lovely. I do hope you make your way out of the shop every once in a while to see it. How about you send me some of the pictures you take? I have missed seeing the world through your lenses._

_All my love,  
Joyce_

~~

On Sunday evening, soft mist hovers over Gotham, sinking into its nooks and crannies serenely, an aura of restlessness left in its wake as it slowly floods in from the bay. Throughout the night, sirens echo into the sky and a floodlight shines blearily upwards, hardly distinguishable from the ambient glow of windows reflecting off slippery streets. In the light of the early morning, a loud thump from the roof startles Tim as he pours himself coffee and he hisses as some of the steaming liquid spills onto his hand. 

“Damn it.” He quickly turns on some cold water and holds his hand underneath the stream, ignoring the sharp pain as it fades into a dull throb. More pressing is the sneaking suspicion that his streak of good luck regarding vigilante presence has just run out. His insomnia has been acting up since he moved back to Gotham, so it’s not uncommon to find him awake at three or four in the morning. Even so, it’s too early for this and he is _not_ a morning person.

“Please be the antenna,” he sighs. Grabbing a jacket, he jiggles open the window of his living room and leverages himself out onto the fire escape, pulling the window partway shut behind him. He shivers, pulling on the jacket and zipping it closed before slowly climbing the steps, grasping the railing to steady himself on the slippery structure. 

Stepping over the ledge, Tim scans the roof carefully. He’s almost called it a wash and is contemplating the effort of cleaning up the coffee spill when he spots a flash of color just barely peeking out from behind the access door. Approaching with caution, he holds back a grimace at the sight. 

The young woman is clearly unconscious, her body limp, but the black spandex - or is it body armor? - hides any bloodstains or signs of bruising. Her blond hair spills out from a tight ponytail, face partially concealed by the domino mask. Tim risks leaning down and puts his fingers to her neck, thankfully feeling the reassuring pulse. Not dead then. And he can see her chest rising and falling, so she’s still breathing on her own. Pushing her onto her back doesn’t reveal any punctures or tears in her outfit, but does expose the symbol that all of Gotham knows intimately, outlined in a vibrant yellow across her chest.

A quick glance around reveals no partner on the building and the mist is too thick to tell if someone has ended up on the rooftops nearby. But just because there’s no backup doesn’t necessarily mean someone less savory isn’t searching for Batgirl to finish off the job.

“Well,” he says to the prone figure, “I definitely can’t leave you here.” 

Her silence is an emphatic response.

Heaving her limp form over his shoulder, Tim picks his way gingerly back down to his apartment, maneuvering the window open with his foot. He has to prop Batgirl up against the wall as he scurries inside, leaning back out to grab under her arms and drag her the rest of the way in over the windowsill. 

“You’re - heavier than - I would have - thought,” he huffs as he lowers the girl onto the couch. It's probably a good thing she can't hear him - he doubts she would appreciate his observation.

Checking her over one more time, he grabs a blanket and lays it over her, making sure she’s fully covered. 

Over the next hour, Tim busies himself in his darkroom, going through the film from his walk along the piers the week before and picking out some for development. He’s about to set up the enlarger when something in the atmosphere sets him on alert. There’s no sound, no creak or whisper, but when he opens the door it’s to Batgirl groggily trying to force open the window. 

“C’mon, c’mon, freakin’ open already,” she mutters. 

Tim weighs whether to interrupt her, but the decision is abruptly taken out of his hands when she suddenly spins around, somehow focusing her glazed eyes enough to glare at him. 

“Who are you?” she slurs demandingly. “Why am I here?”

Tim raises his hands, trying to exude friendliness and general niceness. “My name is Tim and I found you on the roof unconscious. I was just trying to make sure you were okay.”

“How did you know I was there? Surveillance?!” 

“What? No, I - I heard a noise and I went to see what it was.” 

“Likely story,” she scoffs. “Who do you work for, Two-Face? Ra’s al Ghul?” She notices the red light peeking out from under the darkroom door and her face darkens. “Taking pictures for blackmail, scumbag?”

Tim frowns. “No...I don’t work for anyone. I swear.” Something is off. Batgirl is clearly still out of it, swaying slightly on her feet, but her eyes keep flickering rapidly around the room, as if watching for something. Her questioning reeks of paranoia. 

She points at him, her hand quivering almost unnoticeably. “Did you do anything?”

“Do anything?” It takes a second for comprehension to sink it and when it does, disgust rises in his throat. “ _No_! No, absolutely not, I would _never_ \- I didn’t even take off your _mask_.”

“Prove it!”

Tim looks at her, how frightened and angry she is. “I can’t.”

Her hand clenches into a fist at her side and drifts towards her utility belt. Tim centers himself and prepares to dodge when a hard knock on the window breaks the tension. Through the glass, a scowling Robin glares in at them, his arms crossed over his chest and fingers tapping impatiently. 

Tim shifts to go to the window, but Batgirl snarls and he steps back, his mind whirling. Robin rolls his eyes as Batgirl tries to pull up the window again, pointing sarcastically to the locks on the side of the frame. 

“You are an embarrassment,” he says once she manages to get the window open, hopping inside. “You fled the scene before Ivy was contained. Hood had to get involved.”

The insult doesn’t even penetrate. “We have to leave,” she whispers frantically. The utter shock on Robin’s face as Batgirl grabs his arm almost makes Tim laugh. “It isn’t safe here.”

“What is wrong with you, shrew?”

Tim cuts in. “I think if you were fighting Poison Ivy, Batgirl may have been exposed to something that has increased her perception of danger.”

When Batgirl sneers at him, Robin narrows his eyes thoughtfully, looking between her and Tim. Batgirl tenses harshly when the teen takes a step closer to Tim, her grip on his arm tightening as she pulls him back and behind her. 

Robin jerks his arm loose. “Tch.” He presses a finger to his ear and says, “Located Batgirl. Conscious but likely suffering from exposure to some compound of Ivy’s.” He pauses, pursing his lips. “No, not hostile, we should be able to make it back without further incident.” His eyes flick over to Tim briefly. “I’ll give a full report after we return.” 

“We appreciate your assistance with this matter,” Robin then states, giving Tim a grudging nod. Then he turns to Batgirl. “Let’s head out.”

Clearly unhappy with the command, she still follows orders and climbs out the window, stumbling as she finds her footing on the slippery metal. A hint of a glow is starting to line the horizon as the mist that had fallen over the city begins its slow journey to dissipation. Tim estimates that they’ll have less than an hour to make it back to the Manor before sunrise, if indeed they don’t stop at a closer hideout. Robin quickly follows behind Batgirl and Tim rushes over just in time to see them fly over the next rooftop, Robin trailing Batgirl just enough to take measures should she fall again. 

With a huff, Tim closes the window. Hopefully it’ll be the last time for a while. 

An uneventful day follows the chaos of the early morning and Tim is grateful. Only two customers come in throughout business hours, one of which barely browses before walking out of the shop with a pair of gaudy earrings that make her smile like a child. The other needs more assistance and Tim spends thirty minutes chatting with him while he walks the shelves, indulging in some conversation about the Scandinavian design scheme that had appeared after lunch. Eventually the gentleman leaves with basketball covered in signatures, commenting joyfully how amazing it will be to use it to teach his son how to play. 

By the time he closes up Traveler’s Corner, the fog from the previous evening has almost completely disappeared, leaving behind one of the rarest sights in Gotham City: a clear sky. By the time Tim finishes dinner, the blue has given way to swirling oranges and yellows, the sun sinking slowly beneath the skyline and painting the normally gray cityscape with a flood of color that renders it almost welcoming. 

He finds himself again on the rooftop, this time with his tripod and camera. A sunset, a _real_ sunset, in Gotham is rare enough that he can’t pass up the opportunity to get a shot of it. Despite a prickling sensation across his back, he doesn’t think to keep his guard up any more than usual. Villains confine their activities to the darkness nearly always and the Bats are named that for a reason, namely the fact that they operate at night. 

It’s because of this logic that he doesn’t notice the hint of electric blue mixed within the shadows cast across a nearby rooftop. It’s only when the sun is gone and Tim is sitting safe inside his apartment that a figure, relaxed and calm, soars off the roof and into the night.

~~

_Dear Joyce,_

_I ran into a wizard today in Chicago. He was chasing after these massive creatures that look like I imagine the love child of a giraffe and lamprey would be, so you know, utterly horrifying. The wizard was shooting this fire from his hands somehow, trying to injure them I think, but just thinking about the possible collateral was enough to give me hives honestly. It’s like vigilantes or heroes or whatever you want to call them have never heard of sound strategy._

_Except Batman. I bet he plays chess with his butler._

_Anyway, after the initial communication difficulty we were able to herd them into the river where they slowly disintegrated. Apparently they were some sort of golem creature and they broke down into their component parts when forced into running water. Learn something new everyday. The wizard was also very accepting of my assistance which was a nice change of pace._

_He bought me a drink at a nearby bar (lots of people in weird clothes, definitely some sort of underground magical society) and then took me back to Traveler’s Corner where he promptly freaked out._

_Have you ever seen a seven foot tall man try to scramble out of a VW bug? It was hilarious._

_Yours affectionately,  
Tim_

~~

Over the next week, Tim finds hints that he is being followed. 

While it isn’t uncommon to find grapple marks on roof ledges, at least two new patterns have been made on his apartment complex’s since finding Batgirl, an escalation that is unlikely to be coincidence. He once finds a footprint in some muck by an alleyway after hearing something that sounds like a cape whispering along a wall. There’s no point in attempting identification but the print is fresh and Tim trusts his gut when it points to the Bat family. 

The turning point is when he is carrying home some groceries and sees a woman in a wheelchair waiting outside the shop, her eyes glued to her phone as her fingers tap rapidly against the screen. There’s a man leaning against the wall next to her, a cigarette held loosely between his fingertips. The fading sunlight brightens a shock of white in his hair. Tim watches as he brings the cigarette up to his lips, taking a puff, only to be scolded by the woman. 

Approaching the door, he stops a few yards away and says “Can I help you?” The man pushes himself off the store’s facade and normally Tim would find him the most worrying, a muscular frame only made more intimidating by a soldier’s bearing, but something draws his eyes to the red-haired woman instead. 

She smiles. “Sorry to bother you. A friend of ours recommended your shop, but…” She shrugs sheepishly, gesturing to her chair. “Well, I didn’t judge the time right trying to get here.” 

Her expression seems sincere but the tension in her shoulders speaks to a lack of ease with her statement and Tim notes the quick clench of her fist around her chair arm before it quickly relaxes. 

“I see. Well, it is a bit late…” He considers the two and takes in the protective hand the man places on the handles of her chair, the way she eases just slightly as she remembers his presence. “But sure, I don’t mind letting in some late customers.”

Juggling his groceries, he wrestles the key into the lock and lets the two in, the door swinging shut behind him. “Just let me put these away and I’ll be right down.”

At their nods, he hurries upstairs, shoving the perishables into the fridge and leaving the rest out to put away later. When he returns downstairs, the man is cracking a joke about something on the shelf while the woman glances at him in amusement. They seem to be in no rush, leisurely going down the first aisle at their own pace. 

Tim calls out, “Anything you need?” opening the register to make sure he left some change in it after emptying the cash drawer earlier. A couple of dimes and pennies stare back at him so he breaks a roll of quarters, the sound startling in the quiet. 

“No, thank you,” the woman responds. A flurry of whispers follow and Tim pauses. 

“So,” comes the voice of the women, her body hidden behind the shelves. “Have you been in Gotham long?”

“Not very long,” he answers. “Just a couple of months now.”

“Still a new arrival then!”

“I wouldn’t say new exactly.”

“Oh? Lived here before?” He hears her put something heavy back on the shelf.

“Grew up here actually. North of the river.” They definitely don’t need to know that he lived in perhaps the wealthiest neighborhood Gotham had to offer. 

“Interesting,” the man cuts in. “Was it at Arkham? - ‘cause only a crazy person would come back to Gotham once they were out.”

Tim laughs. “Guess sometimes you just can’t get away from your hometown. Isn’t there some saying about that?”

The man grumbles. A sharp smacking sound follows and an undignified yelp comes from the end of the second row of shelves. The woman wheels around the corner with a laugh. 

“I agree…” She trails off. “I’m sorry I didn’t get your name?” 

There is an art to interrogation that Tim learned young at the feet of his mother. Janet Drake had been cool, calculating, and pragmatic. She had also wanted to prepare Tim for the world, both business and personal, so that he would never be caught off guard and would always be able to spot someone trying to take advantage. In her own way, she had loved him very much. She had taught him how to gently pump a person for information by disguising it as genuine interest and natural conversation. This is most effective when the mark does not know it’s happening. It is important to appear non-threatening, casual, so they don’t catch on as the interrogation continues. Janet Drake had used her role as socialite wife to her advantage as she prowled ballroom floors, slipping into conversations and walking away with insider information reporters and businessmen would kill to have.

His mother would like this woman, Tim thinks, smiling. What better way to appear non-threatening than to use the way people view her wheelchair? What smarter way to cement the illusion of harmlessness than to juxtapose her apparent frailty with the mass of the man at her side? 

He likes her too, if he’s honest. So he answers her question truthfully.

“Tim. And you are?”

“Kate,” she says. Nothing, no twitch or drifting eye gives her away, but Tim knows she's lying.

“And I’m fuckin’ Bruce Wayne, are we ready to go or what?” Crossing his arms, the man rolls his eyes. 

Tim shakes his head. “Please, you came all the way here, I can’t let you go home empty-handed. I think you may find something you like over there if you don’t mind a suggestion.” He points to a wooden cabinet, scratched and worn with use. 

The couple exchange glances before the man snorts and saunters over, pulling open the cabinet doors lazily. The woman smiles at him and turns her attention back to the shelves, slowly wheeling herself around to take a look at the last row. 

Tension lingers in the air. It isn’t difficult to tell that the couple has some sort of agenda in coming to Traveler’s Corner and if the woman hadn’t been so familiar, so similar to the way Tim remembered his mother in her prime, well...maybe he would have made a different decision. But luck is on his side tonight and his intuition doesn’t fail him. Instead, the woman soon after wheels up to the counter, placing a child-sized police cap in front of him with a grin. 

“I love it,” she says enthusiastically. “My dad gave me one just like it when I was a kid.”

“It’s cool,” Tim responds, taking her credit card and swiping it. “Your total was $8.75. Would you like your receipt?” he asks as he hands back her card.

“I’m good, thanks,” she says, putting the cap on her head. It’s too small to actually fit so she just lets it rest. “I just need some bobby pins to make it actually wearable.”

He laughs. “Well, far be it from me to stop a good hat.” In the counter drawer he finds three loose bobby pins and gives them to her. “Here.”

“Thanks!” As she fastens the hat to her hair, Tim checks on the man just in time to see him closing the cabinet doors, turning and putting his hands in his pockets as he rejoins his companion.

“We done here?”

“Yeah.” She frowns at him. “You didn’t find anything?”

“Nope,” he says shortly. “Let’s go.”

She shakes her head. “Alright.” Turning back to him, she smiles. “Thank you for your help. This place was just as cool as my friend said it was.”

“Not a problem. I hope you enjoy your purchase.” Then he looks at the man who stares back at him, a bored expression on his face. “And I hope _you_ like your _gift_.” As if Tim can’t tell when someone shoplifts.

The bell dings, accompanied by the sound of the woman’s laughter as the man’s voice raises, telling her to stop. It’s quiet in the shop after they leave and Tim leans on the counter, hand under his chin thoughtfully. 

Something about both of them tickles at his memory, shadowy figures playing hide and seek in the dark corners of his mind. The sound of laughter echoes forward in time and he closes his eyes, concentrating. 

Red hair.

Wheelchair.

Police cap. 

…

Barbara Gordon. 

His eyes fly open. It had been all over the news. Commissioner Gordon’s daughter had been kidnapped and when they finally found her, she was heavily traumatized, both physically and mentally. It had been a gunshot wound, he knows. There had never been confirmation, but Tim had suspected the Joker. When Batgirl didn’t return to the skies, he was almost positive. The Joker was crazy, but the Commissioner had tried to catch him for years without being personally targeted and it would have been unlikely for the Joker to deviate from his normal MO of focusing on the Bats. Soon after a person calling themselves the Oracle had appeared on Bat conspiracy websites and Batman’s cyber security had gone through major upgrades. The connection wasn’t difficult to make.

Tim doesn’t believe in coincidence. The odds of the former Batgirl stopping by his store on a recommendation from a ‘friend’ aren’t even worth considering they’re so minuscule, not to mention that after having the _current_ Batgirl in his home, however unharmed and accidental, it would be irresponsible for the Bats not to look into him. Perfectly understandable. 

Locking the doors, Tim hums thoughtfully. There’s still the question of the man and what role he plays in this, but it’s safe to assume he is at least Bat-affiliated. His mind jumps to the encounter with Red Hood - not enough data yet though. 

He grimaces as he shuts off the lights, plunging the shop interior into darkness. Hopefully, they’ll let it go. With Arkham breakouts every other week and small crime thugs who can’t get a clue, they really should be far too occupied to keep following around a nondescript shop owner that clearly does _not_ present a threat to the Bats or Gotham City. 

Still, he won’t hold his breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First week on the job finished and it seems like it'll be pretty cool! I'm gonna try to keep up my writing schedule but the updates might be every two weeks instead of one. Plus, I'm going to be out of town this week visiting friends which is awesome!! but does mean I won't write anything this next weekend :((
> 
> I think I'm figuring out the plot now so expect to see some more familiar faces soon!
> 
> Also, thank everyone who has reviewed and left kudos! I definitely get my motivation from you <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Bat clan attempts to utilize their communication skills...some are more successful than others.

_Dear Tim,_

_I found a ladybug today on one of my balcony plants. I’m not quite sure how it got inside or how it is still fluttering around during the deepest point of winter. Ladybugs are supposed to hibernate when it’s cold - it’s why they are the first to appear when spring returns. They wake up with the flowers and need no time to hatch or begin again. They simply start where they left off._

_Lately I’ve been thinking about beginning again. It can be frightening to leave behind the things we know and start a journey to a new place, new people. But perhaps it is even more frightening to return to a place that you called home to find it not quite the same as when you left. I recently visited my family in the Philippines and discovered that all my nieces and nephews have become adults while I was away, some of them with families of their own now. I was surprised to realize how much time had gone by._

_Family and friends are what make a home. You made Gotham home and I’ve grown to love it despite all the silliness and nonsense that roams its streets at night. Hopefully the shop will make its way back around these parts and you can come for a visit - I’ll make sure to have that nasty bean water you like so much on hand._

_Lovingly yours,  
Joyce_

~~

In north Gotham, four people look at a picture of a young man projected on a screen. It’s a profile shot, the man turning away to look at something in the distance that the photographer didn’t capture. Dark hair frames his pale cheeks and though his eyes are closed, if they were open they would be the same blue as the ice forming on the river during winter. He’s holding a camera in his hands.

“Timothy Drake,” says Barbara as she turns away from the monitor. “Born to Jack and Janet Drake almost twenty-two years ago at Gotham City Memorial.”

“Drake?” Dick cuts in. “As in Drake Industries?”

“Yeah,” Barbara answers, pulling up a picture of the Drake family. The son is young in the photo, barely a teenager, if that. The parents have photo-ready smiles, but the corners of Drake’s lips are barely turned up, his small frame squished uncomfortably between his mother and father. He looks nothing like the confident man that they had seen at Traveler’s Corner. “They actually lived next door to the manor until the parents died while on a business trip overseas. Drake almost immediately filed for emancipation and was able to get it.”

She clicks the remote and the picture changes to one of Drake, now a man grown, as he stands outside his store.

“Here’s what we know. Drake is currently the owner and proprietor of Traveler’s Corner, a shop that offers an eclectic selection of items for purchase and was suddenly registered with the Gotham Business Bureau in August. He became the full owner of the store at the age of seventeen, though according to school records he worked there from the age of twelve, putting it down as a extra credit for business class. He quickly left Gotham after taking over and has moved around ever since. He returned to Gotham a little over three months ago.”

“Who takes over a business at seventeen?” Jason says, leaning back in his chair with his eyes fixed upward as he tosses a smoke grenade in the air, watching it spin before gently catching it. 

“I could.” Damian glowers as Jason scoffs. “One day I will take over Wayne Enterprises. This Drake did not even seize the inheritance left to him by his parents, giving it over in favor of a miniscule store with useless items to sell.”

“Not exactly true, Dami.” Dick leans over the computer screen, clicking on a link to send a list of dates projecting onto the monitor. “He’s been in fairly constant contact with Dr. Eun-seo Byeon, acting head of DI. Judging by the email contents, she’s been trying to convince him to come on in some role for years.” He frowns. “Though it seems like she’s downgraded the actual role over time.”

Barbara nods. “Records from school speak of someone highly intelligent, not only with regards to coursework, but also interpersonal skills. During his emancipation hearing, the judge noted that, and I quote, ‘he had never seen a more mature teenager, or one that so clearly understood what it would mean to live as an independent adult.’”

Jason raises an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

Silence. Then Jason shakes his head roughly. 

“It doesn’t make any sense,” he asserts forcefully. “This guy grew up in rich-kid central and he didn’t even squeak when I pistol-whipped a gangster.”

“Jason,” Dick reproaches. 

Jason waves his complaint off. “Shut it, golden boy. I’m just saying, you look at this dude’s record and nothing says, ‘sasses possible murderers, moves like a ghost.’ If I hadn’t come from the roof right above him, I might not have even seen him. Me!”

“Not to mention his little rescue operation.”

They all turn as Stephanie gingerly walks down the stairs. Dick makes an aborted move to help her, but steps back and raises his hands in surrender as she glares at him.

She lowers herself into her bean bag chair, specially modified with a Kevlar cover to ensure the highest chance of survival of Bat family cave fights after Alfred decided he could only justify so many trips to the local Walmart. Equipment casualty rates made a sharp decrease after he put his foot down - no one wants to get on Alfred’s bad side. Not if they ever want a decent meal again.

“I don’t remember much,” she continues, “but he didn’t panic when things got dangerous. Heck, if Damian’s telling the truth then he diagnosed me probably the second I started talking. And he was _right_.”

Damian crosses his arms and huffs. “Tch. I see no need to lie about such things.” His brows creases. “There were signs on the fire escape that he had moved you from the roof where you must have collapsed. Not only did he offer aid, he went through the effort of both finding you and physically taking you to what he felt was a safer location. That is extremely uncommon behavior.”

“There’s no evidence that he’s anything other than what he seems to be,” Dick cautions. “We can’t jump to conclusions.”

“He’s weird as fuck, Dick, and you know it,” responds Jason heatedly. “And that store - ”

“I agree with Jason.” Barbara calmly pulls up another photo on the monitor. “Though maybe not in such graphic terms,” she adds dryly. 

Dick looks at her dubiously. “You _agree_? With _Jason_?”

“Yes.” She purses her lips, looking intently at the picture now looming over the cave. A seventeen year old Drake stares out at them, his face solemn as if that will distract the viewer from the fierceness in his eyes. “Something is off. I think it’d be good to keep an eye on him at least.”

~~

“So,” Barbara says once the boys have gone off to start their patrols and Damian has sufficiently complained about getting stuck on Gotham PD surveillance duty. “Thoughts?”

Stephanie scratches at her nose and winces a bit as the motion pulls at her side. Ivy’s compound had masked the initial pain but once they had managed to flush her system, it had become clear that her injuries were more serious than they first thought. A couple of scans later, Batgirl was benched until her ribs were somewhat recovered from the cracks they received, likely after crash landing onto a rooftop at high velocity. Barbara huffs and rolls over to the medicine cabinet, grabbing the ibuprofen bottle and throwing it to her. 

“Take two more. There’s no point in skimping on your meds when you’re benched for the next two nights.”

Rolling her eyes, Stephanie pops the lid and pours a couple into her palm, tossing them back with a grimace. 

“Ugh.” She makes a face. “I hate being injured.”

“Everyone hates being injured,” Barbara says, rolling back to the console and gesturing to the screen where Tim Drake’s photo still projects. “Again, thoughts?”

Crossing her arms, Stephanie gazes up from her beanbag, intently studying the photo as if it could give up the subject’s secret by sheer force of will.

“He’s a good guy,” she says slowly, mulling over her words carefully. “But he’s not your average civilian. I knew he was a possible threat under the influence and even with heightened paranoia, not just anyone would ping my radar like that... I don’t know though, I don’t like him for a criminal.”

Barbara understands what she means. Waiting until after business hours had been a calculated move on her part - something that had pissed Jason off enough to come with her in case Drake was ‘a fuckin’ psychopath, you have no survival instincts, Jesus.’ But there had been no problems, no strange looks, nothing to give the impression that he was anything more than he seemed - except that his eyes were too knowing, too perceptive. That, more than anything else, makes her question exactly how harmless Drake really is. She’s lived long enough to realize that people are more often gray than black or white - just because he helped Steph doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a dark side.

“We should keep our distance for now, I think. Monitor but not engage. With Ivy locked up, I’m sure someone is going to try to make a move on her territory and that needs to take priority.”

“Right,” Stephanie says dryly. “Wanna bet on how long before one of the boys confronts him?”

Barbara looks up and sighs. “No. I never take a sucker’s bet.” 

~~

Quiet nights Gotham are the worst. The pounding of his feet against rooftops and rushing of his blood through his veins are enough to drown out the insidious green whispers that haunt him both day and night. But when the city takes her rare nights of rest, Jason is left watching over empty streets, listening to the faint static over his earpiece in an effort to remind himself he isn’t alone. Tonight is even worse because his mind keeps spinning in spirals that all lead back to that idiotic, balls-of-steel shopkeeper.

A whisper of sound from behind has him tensing in readiness.

“All quiet on the western front,” says Dick cheerily, and Jason sneers in response, ignoring the tiny pulse of relief that settles in his chest at the sight of the blue and black suit. 

“You know that book’s a tragedy, right?”

Dick shrugs. Reading was never his forte - it was too much sitting still. Jason had tried to bond with him over books when he first moved into the manor until he realized that Dick would rather jump off a building than hang out in a library. 

They stand quietly on the ledge and look out over the city lights. Jason pulls out a cigarette and lights it, enjoying the slight grimace on Dick’s face as he does so.

It’s taken them a long time to get to this point, where silence isn’t choking and judgemental. The Pit had driven Jason mad - he’s finally accepted that - but the hatred and rage that had pushed him forward in his goal to decimate Batman and his stupid inability to make the hard decisions? All of that had simmered under his skin long before the Joker took a crowbar to his head. Jason will never admit it, but Dick had been left with little choice about putting him in Arkham. Nothing could have stopped him from continuing his vendetta and one Robin had already almost died because he couldn’t separate a teenage girl trying to stop her father’s criminal activity from his vicious anger at being replaced. 

Things are never going to be okay. Every time he sees Bruce he has to fight back the urge to throw a punch, but he’s been hanging out with Dr. Thompson more often during the last two years. Jason still thinks that sometimes there are people who just need to be wiped off the earth, but after almost killing a kid? Well, even he isn’t stupid enough to think that there’s nothing wrong with that. He’s reevaluated some stuff, is all he’s saying.

Enough beatings have knocked the guilt out of Dick - he hadn’t been the best big brother but if there’s anything Jason understands it’s bitterness at losing part of your identity to someone else - and if Jason still sees it in his eyes every once in a while, well, at least it’s not cloying in its weight. Damian’s only hangup was that Jason might want to be his father’s heir and once that was thoroughly and _violently_ debunked, the kid chilled out and treated him like a servant - basically the same as everyone else. 

Barbara and Steph had never written him off, but were the only members of the Bat clan with an ounce of emotional intelligence and the wherewithal to realize that dying and returning to life, only to find yourself stuck under a league of ninja assassins with no indication that your death had left a lasting impact on your father figure, _might_ leave a person with some pretty massive PTSD. Stephanie didn’t even hold her almost murder against him. Maturity beyond her years that one, and a morbid sense of humor, too. He’d never tell her but the ‘Dead Robins Club’ T-shirt she made him was folded in his duffel bag at his newest bolthole. 

Dick’s voice eventually cuts through the silence.

“Why do you have such an issue with this guy? He’s weird, sure, but he didn’t strike me as dangerous.”

He takes a draw from his cigarette. This is the problem with Dick. Always looking for the best in people. “Weird people eat their Cheerios with chocolate milk. They build 10-feet tall Lego replicas of global tourist sites. Hell, maybe, if they’re _really_ odd, they attend furry conventions dressed as fuckin’ Big Bird. They do not calmly walk home, _alone_ , after watching a guy in a mask hang another dude from a third-story fire escape and they especially don’t _thank_ the masked guy for accompanying him home when he shouldn’t have known the guy was there because, you know, _fuckin’ vigilante_.”

“Wait...who was the guy in the mask again?” Dick asks innocently.

Jason shoots him a dirty look and Dick laughs.

“Sorry! You’re just so worked up and I don’t really get it. He hasn’t done anything threatening - hell, he’s pretty much been the opposite of threatening.”

A slight tint of green bleeds into the corners of his eyes and Jason takes a deep breath, reciting sonnet 94 in his head. Meditation had never done much for him, but words at least gave him something to hold onto when the rage surged in his blood. 

“You went to the store, right?”

“Yeah?”

“Tell me this then: what did you get?”

Dick shifts. “What?”

“Simple question, Dickwing. What’d you get from the store?”

Dick hesitates. “A book. I got a book.”

“Uh-huh. Just a random book. Nothing odd about it. Nothing that rubbed you the wrong way.” Jason carefully does not move his hand toward his front pocket as he grills his almost-brother.

Dick’s lack of response confirms Jason’s suspicions. “He had something he shouldn’t have, didn’t he? Something that played with your mind or - or brought up thoughts you didn’t need to think about.” A slight heat penetrates through his gloves and he swears as he sees his cigarette has burned down too far. Dropping it on the roof, he grounds it out with his shoe. “We’ve dealt with too many psychos playing mind games, Dick. Whatever he’s planning, whatever he’s doing, better to stop it before it blows up in our faces.”

When Dick doesn’t answer, Jason looks at him. There’s a pensive expression on his face, something that fits uncomfortably along a mouth and brow that are far more used to smiles and cheer. 

“I remember seeing him at those galas Bruce made me attend when I was a kid. I’m pretty sure it was him at least.” His eyes scan the street below absently. “Real quiet kid. Very proper.”

“So what?”

“He always seemed like he wanted to join the kids and play - something in his eyes. But he never did.” Dick looks up, staring at the sky as if he can see the stars hidden behind the smog that covers the city. 

“Maybe you’re right to be wary of him - maybe this _will_ come back to bite us. But Jason,” and here he stops, struggling with something before he sighs. “He gave me a copy of _Twelfth Night_.”

Jason freezes, then in a flurry of movement, pulls out his grappling gun and points it into the distance. “ _No_ ,” he growls furiously, before firing, letting the pull of the cord swing him off into the sky. He doesn’t hear Dick call after him, but not even Boy Wonder would be stupid enough to yell out his location in case any scumbags are around. 

He lets himself fly, instinct guiding each twist and turn of his body as his mind spins like a hurricane. When his feet finally hit the ground, he stumbles, probably the first time in years he’s tripped without being physically incapacitated - weakness isn’t acceptable, never was, never will be. Bruce had started that lesson and oh, how the League had finished it. Without his permission, his hand clutches at his pocket, feeling the items secured underneath the zipper. He opens it and reaches inside.

And pulls out three black lug nuts.

~~

_Dear Joyce,_

_Today was the anniversary of my parents’ deaths and I almost forgot. It was such a busy day in the shop and there were so many things I was working on with my new landscape project that it was almost time for bed before I realized what the date was. Five years. It’s been five years since they died. It doesn’t seem real that so much time could have passed, that I could have gone so far from where I started._

_Is it bad that I don’t miss them? They were my parents, but at the same time they were strangers. Even the things they did when they tried, usually it was just them preparing me for the business world - you know how rare it was for my mother to speak to me about something other than grades? I mean, I’m grateful for it in a way, but still._

_I don’t know, I guess I think I should feel guilty for having almost forgotten, but I don’t really. I just feel a bit empty._

_I miss you though. Every day._

_Yours affectionately,  
Tim_

~~

In the early morning hours, an elderly gentleman in a plain white apron places a kettle of water on the stove, turning up the heat. The house is silent but for some slight creaking coming from one of the upstairs bedrooms. Humming to himself, he grabs a cast-iron skillet and mixing bowl from the cupboard, placing them on the counter. A crisp crack echoes through the kitchen as he cracks one, two, three eggs into the bowl before briskly stirring them with a fork. By the time the sun starts its ascent, four plates and mugs are laid out along the island, bare and expectant. 

Alfred pours himself a cup of tea and waits.

Groaning, Dick drags a pouting Damian into the room. “Alfred, please tell me you have something for this little monster to eat. He almost passed out and still wouldn’t have a granola bar.”

“Granola bars are disgusting, Grayson,” Damian hisses, “a fact of which you are well aware.” 

Alfred calmly scoops two scrambled eggs onto the first plate. “Of course, Master Dick. I would not leave one of my charges without sustenance. I assume, Master Damian, that you will also have some of the tofu bacon?”

Were Damian the type of person to wince, he would likely do so in this moment. “Of course, Alfred. You did not need to go through the trouble of preparing it for only myself though.”

Alfred smiles. “It was no trouble at all, Master Damian. I do hope you enjoy it.”

Damian shoots Dick a disgruntled look, but takes his plate to the table. 

“Thanks, Alfie,” Dick sighs. “I swear that kid is gonna put me in my grave before I hit thirty.”

“You’ll put yourself there if you don’t take care of yourself, Master Dick,” Alfred gently chides as he transfers two eggs sunny-side up onto the next plate. “I expect to see you resting after breakfast. You haven’t been getting enough sleep recently.”

“Alfred - ” protests Dick, but he stops when he sees the impressively unimpressed look on the butler’s face. He sighs again. “Fine.”

“Very good. Are we expecting Miss Barbara to join us?”

“No, sorry, I forgot to tell you, she took Steph home since she can’t drive yet.” Dick grabs his plate, stealing a few pieces of still sizzling bacon from the pan on the stove. “Ouch!”

Alfred raises an eyebrow and Dick grins sheepishly before wandering over to join Damian at the table. 

Picking up the extra plate, Alfred puts it away and says, “And where were you this evening, Master Bruce?”

An affectionate huff comes from behind him and Alfred turns to see Bruce standing in the doorway with deep circles under his eyes, his arms crossed and mouth twisted in amusement. 

“One day, Alfred. One day I will catch you unawares.”

“Indeed, sir,” comments Alfred dryly. “And on that day I shall turn in my letter of resignation.”

Bruce chuckles, a sound that Alfred hears far too rarely nowadays. “Fair enough. Scrambled eggs?”

They go through their normal routine, Alfred filling the plate with eggs and bacon, as well as making a cup of coffee. He notices when Bruce tightens his grip on his mug, his eyes flicking briefly over to his sons sitting at the table who are absorbed in an animated conversation, Dick expounding upon the superiority of circus life as Damian argues for the far more efficient option of nomadic desert tribes. Another person might not even notice, but Alfred frowns disapprovingly when he sees Bruce straighten his back, giving the boys a short nod and curt, ‘good morning,’ before heading out of the room. Though Alfred is not a person prone to gambling, he would feel secure in putting money in the pool of ‘returning to the Batcave.’

Dick watches sadly as Bruce leaves the room, unable to see the quickly hidden hurt flash across the face of his younger brother. Alfred walks over and gently places a hand on the young man’s shoulder. When Damian looks up, he asks gently, “More tofu bacon?”

Damian clears his throat. “Yes, Alfred, I would appreciate that.”

Alfred internally sighs as adds more tofu bacon to the plate. Some things cannot be truly repaired once they are broken - it was a lesson he had learned many times in his life, first in the military and then, tragically, with his young charge. They can be mended and fused but the integrity of the item will be weakened, and far easier to crack the next time. And Bruce, he thinks, is getting very close to shattering something quite fragile.

He can only hope, for the sake of his boys, their father will realize his distance causes them far greater injury than any two-bit villain could ever dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Thank you so much for your awesome reviews! There are so many wonderful ideas you have that give me inspiration. I hope you enjoy this latest chapter - the Bat clan is so weird, I love them. Anyway, I hope you all have a ballin' week and a killer Halloween if I don't post again before then! 
> 
> (Don't actually have a killer present at Halloween. That'd probably be a bad idea. *waves goodbye*)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim is juggling a lot of balls right now, but eventually one will have to...drop.

_Darling Tim,_

_Merry Christmas, my dear! I know it must be odd to celebrate in the desert but hot places always have the most wonderful Christmas traditions to make up for the lack of snow. I remember in Arizona they had these beautiful boat parades, each ship covered with Christmas lights as they sailed around the lake. I would say a desert Christmas almost has more magic than a northern one._

_I’m sending along a present with this letter, even though I know it will be a little early. I won’t tell you what it is and I want you to wait until Christmas to open it - and I promise I won’t open yours until Christmas either. We can both celebrate Christmas together that way!_

_Now, I do hope that you’ve been able to get out and about to meet some new people who aren’t your customers. I don’t want to nag you like an old biddy, but for all intents and purposes that is exactly what I am and I am willing to use it to my full advantage. I worry about you sitting inside Traveler’s Corner all day and the pictures you send never have your handsome face in them. It can be hard to put yourself out there, but I know that it will be wonderful once you do._

_Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, sweetheart!_

_With love,  
Joyce_

~~

Tim gets the news when he is in economics class. An officer pulls him out the room into the hallway and from the look on his face, Tim knows it’s not good. Somehow it never enters his mind that his parents might be gone. 

The details don’t come out until later, until he insists on his right to know as the last of kin. A story of blood, business, and poison follows and though Tim had known deals don’t always pan out, he’d at least thought his mother canny enough to avoid dangerous arrangements. Apparently, sometimes it doesn’t matter how smart you are - a madman will decide you fit their needs. No data was recorded regarding the discovery of their bodies, but that had been information Tim already deduced for himself. Batman had been suspiciously absent from Gotham around the same time and their killer had been involved in many operations that trickled through the Gotham underworld.

It still doesn’t really sink in. Not until he walks into Traveler’s Corner a week later and sees Joyce behind the counter, her eyes full of sorrow.

“Oh, my dear.” She opens her arms and, for the first time in years, Tim allows himself to cry.

“Oh, my dear, dear boy,” she murmurs, gently running her fingers through his hair as he shakes apart in her arms. “I am so sorry.”

Throat tight, Tim doesn’t even try to make words, instead burying his head in her shoulder and attempting to take deep breaths. No shame creeps into his head, no chagrin as tears flow from his eyes. Joyce always accepts him, no matter what - the way he always wished his parents would. The thought triggers another flood of tears. 

Joyce says nothing else, only holds him as he slowly regains control of himself. When he finally pulls away, wiping at his eyes, she gives him her handkerchief with an expression of gentle concern. 

“How are you doing, honey?”

A hoarse laugh escapes him as he wipes his face. “Well, I’ve certainly been better I guess, but I’m surviving.” His throat is scratchy and Tim wonders if that always happens after someone cries. “Just finished the funeral arrangements today. Saturday morning at Gotham Cathedral. They didn’t even go there, but - ” He shrugs helplessly. “Nowhere else is big enough.”

Joyce rubs his shoulders soothingly. “Do you want me to come with you?”

“No, no, it’s fine.” What he wants to say is yes, but he knows that if he has Joyce there with him, he’ll get emotional. Emotions are a weakness he can’t afford at this point, not if he’s going to be able to successfully file for emancipation. The Board won’t like that, especially not if they can get him placed somewhere they want. Aunt B wouldn’t be too bad, but there’s no guarantee that’s where he’ll end up, particularly since she’s already next in line to take over for his parents simply by virtue of her role at DI.

None of this is said, but Joyce has always been able to anticipate his thoughts and the light of understanding in her eyes makes Tim almost feel guilty that he can’t let her support him this time.

“I’ll be here if you need me, Tim.” 

Tim smiles shakily. “I know.”

He sits alone in the front pew of the church, his eyes dry and mouth stern. For a moment, he thinks he sees Bruce Wayne in the back but he can’t make out the older man’s expression. In his heart, he feels a flutter of gratitude that he knows he’ll never be able to express for things he’ll never admit he knows. 

Then he takes his feelings and locks them away inside a mental box, vanishing the key. 

He has too much work to do to worry about them now.

~~

“How do you feel about a consultancy?”

“Hello to you, too, Aunt B.” He sighs, tucking his phone between his ear and shoulder as he shuts the shop door, turning the key in the lock. “I’m having a wonderful day, thanks for asking.”

Looking back, Tim can barely understand why he was so nervous meeting with Aunt B when he returned to Gotham. And she is Aunt B now, not Dr. Byeon. She seems to have made it her new mission in life to make sure that Tim is settling well, eating well, and still considering her offer to play a part in Drake Industries at some point in the future. She’s invited him multiple times to come by again, but he’s been avoiding the issue. He doesn’t even have to lie; with the shop, exercising, and his hobbies, he’s actually been too busy to make the trek over there. Not that legitimate excuses have ever stopped Aunt B.

“Yes, yes, I’m sure you are - we’re having trouble with the new nanotech interface. Something is off with the viral targeting matrix.” He hears the clack of computer keys in the background.

“So? Aunt B, I don’t even know which project you’re talking about. And regardless, I’m not a molecular biologist.”

She huffs across the line. “The nanomedicine initiative I was telling you about, with Gotham U? We’ve had some great stuff come out of it, amazing ideas really, but the researchers keep getting stuck on transmitting the ideas into a functional trial.” Her voice becomes sardonic. “And no, you may not be a molecular biologist but don’t think I don’t remember your senior thesis from high school. That coding was genius.”

“It was a graduation requirement,” he grumbles, looking both ways as he crosses the street at the light. It’s getting dark earlier now and he wants to get his errands done before he accidentally gets caught walking near a robbery or a turf fight again. At this rate he’ll be able to get a blackout on the unofficial Gotham City bingo card he found on a Batman subreddit. All he has left are ‘get held hostage by the villain of the week’ and ‘get scolded by Batman for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

“It was brilliant,” Aunt B retorts. “If the world had any justice you would have become a doctor.”

“You know I have a horrible bedside manner.”

“Medical researchers don’t _need_ a bedside manner. What?” He can barely make out the sound of another voice over the line. “Sorry, hold on a second, Tim. Yes, we need that by Friday. No, the...”

As she addresses whatever needs addressing, Tim enters the grocery store, shaking his hands a bit to get the circulation flowing. He forgot his gloves back at the shop, something he sorely regrets as his fingers start to regain feeling with a sharp prickling sensation. He listens absently while he walks through the produce aisles, contemplating whether he should get the green or yellow bananas.

“Listen, the program’s still in its infancy...trials set for beginning of December...tell them we’re not interested right now...I don’t care, we’ve already set...I’ll call later...Tim? Tim, are you still there?”

“Yep.” Better get the green ones, give himself a chance to remember to eat them. “Everything good?”

“Yes.” The rustle of papers filters through the line. “We have a very annoying person interested in the project I was telling you about and they don’t seem to understand that we can’t give projections on human trials yet, not when we’re _just_ getting somewhere with the simulations.”

“Ugh.” Tim throws a pack of frozen chicken in his basket. “I’m sorry you have to deal with that.”

“Part of the job,” Aunt B says. “Regardless, do you think you can stop by this weekend, maybe late Saturday afternoon? Just to take a look over the simulations. I’ll even buy dinner,” she adds slyly.

Tim chuckles. She is relentless, but it would be nice to see her again. “I’ll stop by and look them over but only because I want the special from the Korean barbeque place, okay? I don’t know how much help I’ll actually be though.”

“And I’m fine with that,” she scolds him. Her voice gentles as she adds, “I look forward to seeing you soon, Timothy.” 

“You, too, Aunt B.” Tim smiles as he hangs up the phone. He finishes his grocery shopping and walks back to his apartment, shivering by the time he unlocks the shop door and heads upstairs. 

Traveler’s Corner is fairly busy the next few days, crowded in a way that he hasn’t seen since he arrived in Gotham from Seattle. The changing walls and decoration almost make him dizzy and he resorts to closing his eyes as soon as someone walks out the door so that he stops getting so disoriented. 

By Saturday afternoon, he’s more than happy to close up the shop and grab a taxi to DI, this time walking in without hesitation. The man at the front desk has been replaced with an older woman that shows no reaction when he gives his name, barely even looking at his badge before gesturing him toward the elevators. It would be more concerning except Saturdays are slow for DI and odds are Aunt B let her know that Tim was coming. However, there’s no response when he knocks on her office door. 

“Aunt B?” he calls out. The door is locked when he tries the knob and he frowns. A faint whirring noise from the other end of the hallway catches his attention and he rolls his eyes. “Dr. Byeon!”

He hears an ‘oomph’ and then a young dark-skinned woman trips around the corner, her arms flailing as she tries and fails to keep her balance. A clatter sounds as she hits the ground and Tim runs up to her as she pats around, finding her glasses right as he reaches her.

“Ow,” she says, a little bit dazed.

“Are you alright?” he asks, gingerly grabbing her arm to help her to her feet. 

She shakes her head. “No, yeah, no, I’m good.” Straightening her glasses, she points down the adjoining hall. “Um, Dr. Byeon is in the simulation room, I’m supposed to take you over.”

“Great, thank you.” 

She escorts him through two security doors, both needing a key card and code to get through. He should probably feel guilty for sneaking a look as she enters the code but if he’s going to refuse to go researching vigilante things then he’s got to satisfy his curiosity when opportunities arise elsewhere. It is a bit touching - and sad - to realize that the codes are his mother and father’s birthdays. Possibly even a security risk if anyone stopped to think about it. However, years have passed since they died and it’s doubtful anyone besides he and Aunt B even recognize what the numbers mean. The girl escorting him looks at him a few times, hurriedly facing forward when he looks back. 

“Uh, here we are.” She pushes the door open. 

Everything is different. That’s the first thing Tim notices. The white is the same, but all labs are white. The last time he had been in this room though had been following a deposition hearing with the Board of Directors in which he had thrown every bit of his one hundred and twenty pounds behind Dr. Byeon as the acting CEO of Drake Industries. She had taken him down to her labs and ordered two banana smoothies, sitting with him in silence against the fume hood while they contemplated exactly how things would be different. Surrounded by petri dishes, centrifuges, and microscopes, Tim had finally accepted that everything was going to change.

The lab equipment is gone now, replaced with high-tech computing devices that he can’t identify. Aunt B is sitting in front of a wide screen computer, her fingers flying over the keyboard. She doesn’t even look up as the door opens and Tim fondly rolls his eyes. If he didn’t know better, he would assume he was actually related to her by blood - his father used to say that once Aunt B was dialed into work, not even an earthquake could tear her attention away. Joyce had made the same complaint about him too many times to count. 

“Um, Dr. Byeon? Mr. Drake is here.”

“Hmm?” Aunt B tears her gaze away from the monitor. “Oh yes! Thank you for getting him, Tiffany. Sorry it took you away from your work.”

The woman - Tiffany - shrugs. “I don’t mind. Sometimes it’s better to take a quick break to let things stew in the brain.”

Tim and Aunt B exchange skeptical glances and Tiffany laughs, the nerves that had been present as she walked him to the room suddenly evaporating. 

“Wow, okay, I see it now! That’s hilarious.”

This time Tim turns wide eyes to Aunt B as Tiffany chuckles and walks into the adjoining room. She shakes her head in response, shrugging.

“Tiffany can be like that,” she explains airily. “Brilliant girl, very interested in this project. We were lucky to scoop her up from Gotham U. Not all students would be willing to extend their graduation date to take on something like this.”

“What exactly is this, anyway,” Tim asks, setting down his backpack on a chair and taking the other seat in front of the computer. He gestures to the data on the screen. “You told me the viral targeting matrix is having problems, that doesn’t tell me what we’re trying to accomplish here.”

“Oh Tim.” Aunt B grins. “You’re going to love it.”

~~

_Dear Joyce,_

_Nothing much happened this week. I only had two customers the entire time. It was a father and son pair though, which was interesting. The father found something from his son and the son something from his father. I don’t know what’s going to come from it, but I hope something good - I would love to have something from my parents, something they gave with the real me in mind._

_On a lighter note, a bird had decided that my window box is its new nesting grounds. She’s laid four eggs since she arrived and I’m keeping a close eye on their development, watching the mother’s comings and goings._

_I hope I’m around to see them hatch in the spring. Sometimes I get tired of leaving without ever seeing those new beginnings you were talking about._

_Yours affectionately,  
Tim_

~~

“Damn it, my hair actually looked good today!”

Tim pokes his head around his office door and sees a seething blonde, her outfit drenched and hair almost flat against her head. The first crack of thunder had sounded a half hour ago, apparently signaling the start of a deluge that seemed to have no intention of stopping anytime soon. 

“Welcome to Traveler’s Corner, can I help you?” He asks as per usual, wincing a bit at the amount of water dripping onto his floor. 

“Yeah, can you get me towel or something, please?” She struggles out of her jacket and lets it fall to the ground, grimacing at the wet ‘splat’ when it hits the tile.

Looking at her that seems like an entirely reasonable and very necessary request. “I’ll be right back.”

A couple towels are hiding in a bin in the corner by his desk, but a quick sniff assures him they’re fine and he grabs one before leaving his office.

“Here,” he offers. “Don’t worry, it’s clean.”

“Thanks,” the girl grouses. She scrubs roughly at her head, huffing in displeasure. The displeasure turns to dismay when she looks down at her clothes and she scowls, pulling her shirt away from her skin. She sighs. “At least I wasn’t wearing white.”

“There’s always a bright side.” A roll of thunder rumbles and the girl looks outside, her hands fidgeting with a loose string from the towel. “You’re more than welcome to stay here until you dry off,” Tim says, going to grab another one for her. “Or until the rain stops.”

“That’d be great,” she says with relief. “The storm came out of nowhere. I swear, I checked the forecast today and, _pfft_ , nothing! I would have brought an umbrella or a rain jacket or _something_ , I’m almost always prepared for like, anything and everything.”

“It’s not a problem,” Tim assures her with a grin, tossing her a towel from the counter. She leans over, wrapping up her hair before straightening, the towel turban secure. The other she shrugs over her shoulders. “Why don’t you take a look around while you dry?” he offers. “It’ll give you something to do at least while you wait.”

The girl hums. “Sure, might as well. Got anything good?” she asks, walking towards the shelves. Today they are white and plain with wooden backs. The walls are wood imitation vinyl with an odd stripe encircling the entire room at about hip height. It’s familiar somehow, but Tim can’t quite place where he might have seen the theme before. The openness of the space is a nice change though - usually customers end up hidden behind double-sided bookshelves and it’s fun to actually watch the girl as she trails around wall-bound shelves and racks, casually checking out items as if she has all the time in the world. Looking out the window at the rain, she might actually have that long.

“I like to think so. Haven’t had any complaints at least.”

“Real question.” She turns with a smile and teasing glint in her eye. “How are the yelp reviews?”

Tim surprises himself by laughing, a full on belly laugh like he hasn’t done with a customer - well, ever if he remembers correctly. The girl grins smugly, as if she’s proud that she’s cracked his composure. 

“Honestly, I don’t even know if we have any reviews,” Tim chuckles. “I don’t really keep up with that stuff.”

She stares at him, comically horrified. “You don’t check reviews? Then how do you know which restaurants you can eat at and which ones need to be burned down?”

Well, that escalated quickly. Tim raises an eyebrow and she rolls her eyes, turning back to the small Christmas ornament she had been inspecting. 

“I wouldn’t _actually_ burn a restaurant down,” she says before muttering under her breath but still loud enough for Tim to hear, “even though I’d be doing the world a favor.”

“Good to know.” He forces himself to pick up his camera instead of studying his customer. One small part keeps coming loose and he’s been trying to get it tightened well enough that it’ll just stay that way, but nothing seems to be working, not even with the tiniest of screwdrivers. And just because he’s playing with the camera doesn’t mean he can’t keep an eye out on his visitor. Something about her pings his radar and the pings keep coming as he observes her from underneath his eyelashes. 

Beyond the blondeness and winning smile, Tim notes the musculature in her arms and legs. Her right arm is slightly larger than her left, particularly in her forearm, which makes him think that however she stays fit, it’s related to a real world application rather than a gym. People who go to a gym are usually more even in their muscular development than people who develop their strength based on specific skills. Her walk is quiet and measured, as if she’s learned not to waste any movement that isn’t completely necessary. There’s something in the way she moves that says, ‘competent, experienced, focused.’ She reaches up to a top shelf, and he notices a small wince, her hand moving to her side and pressing down lightly as she massages the area. And yes, all of those things could be innocuous, but Tim grew up in Gotham. He knows better.

Fifteen minutes pass in relative quiet, punctuated by thoughtful hums from the girl as she picks up items, studying them thoughtfully before putting them back in their place. At one point she takes the towel off her head, leaving it hanging over the edge of one of the shelves. The longer Tim watches her, the more familiar she seems. He just can’t quite place where he might have seen her before. Maybe around the docks or the bridge? It could be the museums but somehow she doesn’t strike him as a museum person - they’d be too slow, too stationary. 

When she finally stops, Tim puts his camera down. 

“Oh wow,” she says softly, holding a small bag lightly in her hands. It’s almost strange, the way she’s holding it, like she’s not sure if she wants to clutch it close or throw it back on the shelf. “This looks just like…” Her voice trails off, a hint of sadness shading the corners of her mouth. She traces the logo on the front softly.

The rain, which had been slowly getting lighter, stops.

After years of working at Traveler’s Corner, Tim no longer sees silence as an oppressive force, not like he had when he was younger and wandering around an empty manor, wishing he could hear something besides the wind and his own footsteps. Oftentimes his customers struggle more with quiet. But the girl seems content to stand there with the bag in her hand, looking at it with a bittersweet smile. 

When he judges that her need for silence is coming to an end, he speaks. 

“Did you find something you might like?” 

She doesn’t startle at his words like most would, just looks up. But where there was good humor before, now her gaze is suspicious. Almost...paranoid.

The hair, the arms, the injury - the puzzle pieces suddenly fall into place with a jolt. 

“I did,” Batgirl says slowly, approaching the counter with unwarranted wariness. If what Tim thinks is true though, it makes more sense than it should. “How much is it?”

He holds out his hand and she reluctantly hands the bag over. The logo Tim couldn’t see earlier is a simple red cross. Giving it a quick scan, he raises a brow at the price. “$45.95.” That’s one of the higher prices he’s been given, and he’s had some very rich people walk through the doors before. 

Batgirl reaches into her pants’ pockets and pulls out a credit card. A _black_ credit card. 

Suddenly the pricing makes a lot more sense. 

A quick ring-up and he places her purchase in a plastic bag, handing it back to her. She turns toward the door and Tim, seized by an urge that he can’t explain, says, “You would be a good nurse.”

She does a sharp one-eighty. “What?”

Tim shrugs uncomfortably, wishing he had kept his mouth shut. “Just - your bag? I think that if you aren’t, you would be good at it.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry.”

At his apology, her eyes thaw a bit and she says, “No, it’s fine, it’s just - personal. You know?”

Tim once tried to imagine what Traveler’s Corner could have offered him. It was a mental exercise he tried not to engage in often because it inevitably left him morose and prone to taking depressing pictures of oceanfront piers. “Yeah, I get it.”

Then he offers his hand and says, “I’m Tim.” For a moment, he’s not sure she’s going to take it, but then she reaches out and firmly grasps his own, giving it two brief shakes. But two is enough for Tim to catalogue the pattern of calluses along her palm and fingers, as if she spends a lot of her time using something with some kind of handle or a grip. He remembers watching as Batgirl and Robin flew into the night sky, holding tight to their grappling guns.

“Stephanie,” she responds, her expression lightening. “I appreciate you letting me hang out here until the rain slowed down.”

“It’s not a problem,” he says firmly. “Feel free to come back whenever you like.”

Her eyes are thoughtful as they study him. “You know what? I just might.”

~~

A recent increase in crime near the Vincefinkel bridge leaves Tim having to find new jogging paths. The uninitiated would think that public parks would be the best place to run, but any Gothamite could tell you that whoever the villain of the week was, they would almost certainly try out what hairbrained scheme they had at a park, Robinson usually being their first choice, just to have a few trials before their final experiment. However, an exercise regime isn’t easily broken - at least not when you have the sinking suspicion that your five-mile daily run will actually be useful in the future for more than the possible zombie apocalypse. 

Old Gotham district is as good as anywhere else he decides. With how often GCPD headquarters gets destroyed, might as well see what the latest rebuilding looks like.

Not too bad, he thinks when he jogs past. Architecture a little more modern than when he was a kid, more straight lines than Gothic swoops. The setting sun highlights some nice contrasting spaces the photographer in him notes and he reminds himself to bring his camera next time he runs here. The Clocktower has somehow made it out unscathed in the intervening years and the Cathedral has only replaced a few gargoyles, making them even uglier than before. Batman must have compromised the structural integrity of more than some with the way he’s always brooding on them.

Scaffolding covers the left side of City Hall and spills over onto the sidewalk, so Tim crosses the street, jogging in place as he waits for the light to change. He keeps his eyes fixed ahead as the hairs on the back of his neck suddenly stand up.

Someone is following him.

He continues on as if nothing is out of place, finishing his five miles and cooling down as he walks to the subway, his hands on his hips. The tingling sensation on the back of his neck doesn’t stop until he is safely ensconced inside the subway car, moving out of the station and onto the tracks. That is when Tim finally lets his hands tremble.

The Bats leave clues - unintentionally perhaps -when they do surveillance on him. Tim hardly even notices them anymore it’s so commonplace. Their eyes feel like a warm hand on his shoulder.

It was not a Bat watching him today.

~~

(Bruce lies awake in his bed and stares at the single crack in the corner of his ceiling for a hour after patrol before giving in to the inevitable and getting up. Sleep has never been a friend but the last months - the last few _years_ \- have left even him on his last legs. He needs _rest_.

The constricting tightness in his chest eases as he silently opens Damian’s bedroom door. For all that he is terse and reserved when awake, Damian sleeps like a child, his limbs starfishing across his bedspread. Ace somehow manages to curl himself into the space left at the foot of the bed, and he raises his head when Bruce steps inside. A shake of Bruce’s head, and Ace settles back into position. 

It has been Bruce’s lot in life to miss most of his children’s early years. Dick only came to him because of tragedy, Stephanie for justice, Damian for an inheritance, and Jason...he had thought he was rescuing the boy from Crime Alley.

Jason hadn’t come at all in the end. Bruce had taken. 

Damian would be embarrassed to know his father finds peace in his son’s easy slumber. Would bluster if he knew that by some grace Bruce hasn’t earned, his presence doesn’t trigger the protective instincts a childhood with the League of Shadows had hammered into Damian’s young mind. Even Dick has awoken his youngest brother more than once attempting to surprise him in the morning. 

Bruce doesn’t press his luck though. Instead he creeps back into the hallway, gingerly closing the door behind him so Damian can rest safely.

Gotham, the dark Gotham, stirs when the sun sinks down below the horizon, awakening all the desperate or broken people in the bones of her buildings and calling them out into the night for the chance to find whatever it is they lack. Money, sex, pain, it doesn’t matter. She even calls those who, at the very core of them, have shed the facade of humanity for the ecstasy of evil. Batman belongs to this Gotham, body and soul. 

Sometimes he forgets that Gotham is more than just the night. 

The sun has already made its ascent when he takes the Jag and drives into town. He doesn’t have a destination in mind, so when he sees a parking garage with space to spare, he pulls in and drives to the top floor where he leaves his car in plain view of whoever might care to look. He’d be impressed if anyone has the gumption to try and steal it. 

It’s a rare occasion that Bruce can get away from his role as billionaire playboy, not to mention his duty as Batman. His face is plastered in the tabloids every week, his name is known in every Gotham household, and he was once kidnapped from his own party because ‘Brucie Wayne’ does extreme polo, not martial arts. Suffice to say walking down the street can be an exercise in patience - or penance when he truly feels he deserves it. 

It seems nowadays all he has are reasons to deserve it.

Today luck must be on his side because he is only stopped twice, once by a fan who only wants a selfie and the other by a woman who wants to give him a hug because her daughter had recently gone into remission and the Wayne Foundation had funded the treatment that saved her life. He smiles as she thanks him, smothering the self-disgust he feels for receiving credit that belongs mostly to Lucius.

Moving helps, as it always does. All he wants to do is ignore the world, just for a while, until he has to stare at his kids again and wish he knew what to do.

So intent is he on his plan, he doesn’t actually realize he’s stopped in front of a store that should have no appeal for Bruce Wayne.

He’s never been one for shopping, but whenever he _has_ to make an appearance it’s at the brand name stores that sell you clothes that always itch just where you can’t reach or watches that have ten different functions even though you still only use it to tell time. He frowns at the shop and tries to continue walking.

A compulsion knocks gently at the back of his mind and he growls, turning to face the store again, focusing on the lessons Zatanna had given him last fall after a magician created particularly nasty variations on the Chucky doll for some Halloween mischief. He lets his eyes unfocus for a brief moment.

This place shines. 

Magic is the bane of Bruce’s existence - it makes no sense, can’t be quantified, and has resulted in more uncomfortable situations than he should have ever had to deal with. His familiarity with enchantments and their various subsets have left him skilled at identifying things touched by sorcery and this store - hell, it’s not touched, it’s practically _drenched_. If he, without an ounce of magic in him, can feel it, then it’s something far too powerful to be left uninvestigated. 

He doesn’t like strange things in his city.

He doesn’t like magic users.

 

He walks inside.

A young man stands at the back of the shop. He smiles absently at nothing as he wipes down the counter, but his head lifts as the bell above the door rings out.

“Welcome to Traveler’s Corner, can I help you…”

His blue eyes widen as his voice trails off. Bruce grins with slightly too many teeth to be considered friendly.

“I’m not sure if you can help me, but let’s see what you can do.”)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy late Halloween everyone and please remember the 5th of November! I hope you all had a wonderful time and dressed up as something entertaining. I went to work in active gear while draped with crime scene tape: I was an 'Active Crime Scene' (puns!!!)
> 
> I'm writing a few little side things for this story that I'll probably begin posting sporadically so keep an eye out for those in the coming weeks.
> 
> And yes, Bruce has finally made it to Traveler's Corner! Forewarning though, not everything is going to go exactly as planned (but when does it ever, right?).
> 
> Thanks everyone who left comments and kudos! You help me keep writing when I wonder what the heck I'm doing ^_^


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tim contemplates the passing of time, fights off his very justifiable panic, and has his dinner crashed. It's a bit of a rough week.

_Dear Tim,_

_I have good news and bad news._

_The good news is I finally landed that double loop! The bad news is the second time I tried it I fell and sprained my ankle quite badly. Now, I don’t want you to worry! The doctor says that I’ll have to stay off that leg for a while, but I can still get around with crutches. There’s also this new wheelchair thing, except it’s only for your leg, so I’m going to try that out and see whether it’s any better than the crutches. I don’t mind them much, but after awhile they start to hurt your arms._

_I’m sure you’re irritated with me but I knew what I was getting into when I decided to do ice skating lessons. This is what I wanted to do - even if it meant the possibility of getting hurt. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t do the same._

_I love you bunches, honey, and who knows, I might even give in and get one of those silly cellphones now like you’ve been bugging me to. Sometimes my arms are so sore at the end of the day I don’t even want to write. So you see, maybe something will come of this that you appreciate!_

_I framed that picture of Niagara Falls you sent me. Isn’t it illegal to do the flying pictures though?_

_Love forever,  
Joyce_

~~

Childhood memories are supposed to fade as you grow older. 

The Bruce Wayne from Tim’s childhood recollections is a giant of a man, tall and imposing like a statue from Roman or Greek myths, his hair black as night and eyes sharp like steel. He is full of energy and pizazz and all the things that adults expected to find at the galas where they could show off how wealthy they were while at the same time trying to convince everyone they were only going to get richer. But even at the age of seven, Tim had seen that not everything at parties was true. When he had attended his last gala at the age of fourteen, Bruce Wayne had attended with a slight limp that he’d laughed off as a skiing accident. 

The first thing Tim notices about this new Bruce Wayne is that he still wears the same fake person mask he did almost fifteen years ago. It makes him inexplicably sad to find it in use, even now. But even the mask can’t hide the aching tiredness that fills Mr. Wayne’s eyes, a tiredness that goes deeper than just lack of sleep. There are wrinkles, small ones, at the corners of his eyes and mouth that speak not of laughter, but of stress and sadness. Tim is shocked to see that the older man is only a few inches taller than him now. There is silver in his hair. The realization creeps over him like a wave over the sand.

Bruce Wayne has gotten older.

A rush of determination swells in his chest and he straightens his back. “I’m sure you will find something here that you like and I’m more than willing to help if you need it.” It’s a mix of nostalgia and gratitude and a whole of host of emotions he can’t name that drive him forward.

Mr. Wayne hums. He turns to the shelves, and stops, studying them with vacant consideration. This morning the Traveler’s Corner had chosen to be brightly lit, banishing all shadows, comforting or otherwise. The shelving was a light brown wood - Tim guesses cherry - to match the greenish-blue wallpaper covering the interior with a repeating pattern that somehow reminds him of shooting stars. 

If he had known who would come in, he never would have expected the shop to give him this.

Mr. Wayne looks back at Tim. “Why don’t you help me look then.”

It’s not a question. 

So Tim does. Or rather, he tries. Mr. Wayne doesn’t seem to actually want any help. What he wants to do is talk, to shoot off a barrage of questions. And act like an idiot apparently. 

“Are you the owner?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“That’s impressive! You’re how old, thirty?”

“...Twenty-one actually.” 

“Oh! Are people allowed to have businesses at that age? I did, of course, but I inherited so I’m sure that’s different. What a lovely toy this is!”

“That’s not a - no, I inherited from the previous owner - please don’t toss it around like that, it’s probably breakable.”

Mr. Wayne waves him off. “I have very good hand-eye coordination - I own the Gotham Griffins, you know. So this is a family business then.”

“...In a way. Also, that’s not how hand-eye coordination works - ”

“I don’t frequent this part of town often - I usually go to far more, I’d say _lavish_ venues, but I must say this shop is positively _quaint_! But I don’t think I’ve ever noticed before, such a shame. ”

“Yes, we opened here a couple of months ago.”

Mr. Wayne looks up from the small toy train he’d been examining, a hint of the Dark Knight peering out from his eyes. “We?”

“Oh.” Tim rubs the back of his neck. “Me and the store. Yeah, I just - ”

The mask falls back into place. “Running this place on your own must be such a hassle. That’s why I make sure I have smart people working for me - I’m just so busy with the important things like publicity and the winter lodge - ”

“Right,” Tim interrupts. “I’m just gonna let you look around and I’ll be over at the counter, okay? Okay.”

Rolling his eyes actually gives him physical relief as he walks away, leaving Mr. Wayne to whatever it is he wants to do here. Apparently, the other man had only built up his public persona into _more_ of an idiot while Tim had been away; otherwise he just hadn’t made that much of an effort putting on a show with children. Forget the batarangs and martial arts - the annoyance of hearing the man talk would have someone knocking themselves unconscious just to stop listening. 

The sad thing is if he hadn’t known about Batman, the whole song and dance might have even worked. 

Still, he can’t help watching the figure that defined his childhood out of the corner of his eye, pretending to be absorbed in his ledger that holds absolutely no useful function beyond looking vaguely professional. 

How much must it sting for Mr. Wayne to adopt that vacant expression and put on that airheaded tone. How much the rage must fill his chest when he interacts with the average person, putting on an aura of disregard and vapidness to distract from the silver-edged gleam in his eyes.

No wonder he beats people up at night.

If Tim was an average shopkeeper, he would probably think that Mr. Wayne was simply browsing the store. Since he is not average by any stretch of the imagination, he notices how Mr. Wayne does a visual sweep of the shop’s interior, mentally noting all entry and exit points. Damian Wayne had done the same thing when he visited the shop - and how crazy it is to think that first interaction was months ago - but his father is more subtle and more experienced, his eyes never moving except for when he glances up briefly, as if in thought. It’s only Tim’s own experience that tells him the glance was more likely to determine any vents that may have access points on the ceiling. 

“Do you have any Valentino fragrances?” Mr. Wayne calls out. “I’ve been trying to think of a gift for this woman – Nikki Valley, wonderful model – and I just can’t find _anything_.”

“Do you see any perfume, sir?” Tim responds dryly.

“Hmm, no, I don’t believe so.” 

“Then I’m afraid we don’t have it.”

Mr. Wayne sighs and walks out from behind a shelf. “Such a shame. Any games? I’m partial to dominos myself, but my butler just adores checkers.”

Tim smiles. “I’m a fan of jacks, but I can help you try to look for checkers if you’d like.”

Stillness falls over Mr. Wayne briefly before he shakes his head and laughs heartily, making a ‘forget-about-it’ gesture. “No, no, I’m sure I can look on my own, you seem busy.”

“Really, it’s not a problem – ”

A buzzing noise interrupts him and Mr. Wayne holds up his left hand and pulls a phone out of his right pocket that looks like it costs more than Tim’s laptop and camera combined. 

“Yes,” he drawls. Whatever is said on the other line must be serious because the man shifts his weight and suddenly Tim finds himself no longer looking at Bruce Wayne, playboy billionaire, but Batman. 

“I’ll be right there.” 

Hanging up decisively, Mr. Wayne moves toward the front door and Tim finally finds his voice.

“Wait!”

Mr. Wayne turns and glares at him, and wow, Batman would honestly look more frightening if he forewent the cowl and just stared people down with that exact expression. “ _What_.”

“Uh, you didn’t - ” He tries to find the words. “Isn’t there anything you want?”

Mr. Wayne bares his teeth at him in a parody of a grin. “Young man, if there was anything here I wanted, I would have told you. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have somewhere I need to be. Immediately.”

Then he does what no customer has done in the almost ten years Tim has worked there, something unthinkable. Something _impossible_.

Bruce Wayne walks out of Traveler’s Corner with nothing.

~~

Three hours later, Tim finishes panicking, makes a phone call, and walks out of his office.

He finds a pile of listening devices on the counter.

“It’s okay,” he tells the ceiling. “You can leave them.”

~~

Bruce forces himself to remain calm as he walks into the manor. Alfred waits by the staircase. “Where is he?”

“In the library,” Alfred replies calmly as they climb the stairs. Only Bruce would notice that he feet are slightly apart rather than together, the closest thing to a tell that the butler has. “He’s coming down now and Miss Stephanie is with him.”

“Is that wise?” Bruce demands. Picking up the pace, he rounds a corner, Alfred on his heels and somehow maintaining the same unruffled expression. 

“Miss Stephanie felt she was the best suited in this particular instance. I deferred to her judgement.”

“Alfred - ”

A yell echoes down the hall and Bruce breaks into a run, his heart leaping into his throat. He’s feet away from the library doors when a peal of laughter rings out, replacing the tremors from the yell still reverberating through the walls. Bruce stops in his tracks. The last time he heard that laugh it was full of bitterness and seething rage as a gun was pointed at his nemesis on a rooftop. 

“No way,” Jason chuckles. “I don’t believe you.”

Stephanie’s voice answers smugly. “Oh, yeah. Never knew what hit him.”

Alfred silently comes up behind him. Bruce almost flinches at the hand when it gently squeezes his shoulder. 

“I’m not usually one to dislocate knees,” she continues, “or hang people over buildings like a certain _someone_ , but I gotta say it was kinda cathartic.” Bruce can imagine her bumping her shoulder against Jason’s gently. Stephanie is the most socially aware of all the Robins Bruce has to admit, former and current, and it’s a testament to her strength that she can sit and joke with the man who once had her at the top of his hit list, third only to the Joker and Batman himself. Especially since Jason was very, _very_ close to succeeding.

Stephanie’s voice softens. “How are you feeling now?”

Silence reigns briefly before Jason gruffly answers. “Better. Can’t taste green anymore.”

Bruce slowly lets out a breath, taking care to keep quiet. 

“That’s good.” A rustle of clothing follows. “I’m gonna go grab a snack from the kitchen. I’m sure Alfred already prepared something once he heard you come in.”

Jason snorts. “You mean once I broke the window. Ten bucks says he already called 'daddy dearest'.” Bruce twitches as he hears the loathing slip into the last phrase.

“He does care about you, Jay,” Stephanie sighs. “But if he doesn’t know, I won’t tell him where you are, okay? I’ll just bust through the kitchen and come back and make fun of you for reading poetry.”

There’s silence, as if Jason is thinking about it. “Fine,” he finally grumbles. “And Shakespeare’s a freakin’ genius, you shut your heathen mouth.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll be back in a bit.”

When she walks out, she doesn’t even have the grace to look surprised at Bruce’s presence, just jerking her head to follow as she makes her way down the hall and stairs to the kitchen. Bruce can’t bring himself to ask her, but luckily he doesn’t have to.

“He’s doing better now, but he doesn’t need to see you. Honestly that could just set it off again.” She ruffles through the snack drawer, pulling out two bags of chips and a package of Twizzlers that Bruce is one hundred percent Alfred is aware of and lets slide because of situations exactly like this. 

“Do you know what it was this time?”

She shrugs. “Yeah. But it’s nothing you can do anything about.” She doesn’t stare at him or give him a judgmental glare, but the matter-of-fact tone of voice she uses tells him that it’s somehow related to him. Stephanie has never needed to play word games to get her point across. 

She walks out and he follows her to the foot of the stairs. 

“Does he need anything?”

She turns and looks at him with a mixture of sadness and exasperation in her eyes. “You’d have to talk with him to know that, B. Notice that I said talk with, not at.”

“Stephanie - ”

She cuts him off. “Bruce. I don’t have time to get into this right now. I’ll talk to you later.” 

All he can do is watch as she returns to the library and wish he ever knew the right thing to say. 

“You were gone rather early this morning, Master Bruce,” Alfred observes. Without missing a beat, he herds Bruce into the kitchen, gesturing for him to take a seat as he goes to the kettle. Coffee is what gets Bruce up in the mornings and evenings when it’s called for, but tea is what he drinks when he needs to at least pretend to relax. The scent of Earl Grey probably has a placebo effect at this point.

“I went for a walk. Couldn’t sleep.”

“Ah,” says Alfred dryly. “The usual culprits, I assume.”

Bruce shrugs noncommittally. Even with Alfred he doesn’t like to discuss his motivations - his butler has been known to use it against him if the older man feels it’s for his own good. 

“There’s something operating out of the downtown area, magic in origin going by my best guest.” He pauses, frowning. “I planted some bugs around the interior to do a little listening in. I’m going to run some tracking programs down in the cave but I doubt anything will come up. The owner says it’s been there a couple months, but he definitely has a Gotham accent, even if it was a bit muddled, likely due to long-term traveling. Best guess is the store itself has the magic.”

Alfred hums thoughtfully as he takes the whistling kettle off the stove. “The owner engaged with you then.” He places a mug and tea bag in front of Bruce, setting the kettle to his right.

“Yes. He surprised me.” The water steams as he pours it and he watches as the teabag dyes it a dark brownish-grey. “Do you remember the Drakes?”

“Of course,” Alfred replies. “A lovely couple, if a bit overinvested in their business.”

Jack Drake had been dead by the time Batman reached him, blood colugating on the floor of the warehouse, but Janet Drake had managed to hold on longer than her husband. Her eyes had sparked with recognition when he knelt beside her, her breath already slow and rasping. The last thing she had said…

“Their son. Tim.”

“Ah yes,” Alfred smiles. “A pleasant young man if I remember correctly. Quite shy. I caught him peeking over the fence more than once when I was gardening.”

Alfred would remember that. Bruce takes a swallow of his tea, ignoring the burn that follows. “It’s been so long - but I think he’s the owner.”

The corners of Alfred’s mouth turn down slightly. “Are you sure?”

Is he sure? The last time he saw the kid was when he was a teenager, and a fairly small one at that, sitting in the church pew for the Drakes’ joint funeral. The youngest Drake had never looked much like his parents, dark-haired and pale where his mother was fair and his father tanned. Flitting through galas, Bruce had been struck by the solemnity in his small face, briefly chased away by a small smile whenever he saw the other children - despite the fact that he never went to play with them himself. 

Never played jacks under the tablecloths. 

“Yes. I’m sure.” 

“Then I suppose the question is, what are you going to do?”

There’s an ache in his shoulders that’s been there since Stephanie took up the mantle of Robin and no matter how many massages he gets or heat pads he uses, it hasn’t gone away. He’s coming to accept that it probably never will. After two decades of swinging through the streets of Gotham, he’s finally getting old. His kids have grown, too, though, picking up his slack and building reputations of their own, protecting the city with their own flair and for their own reasons and making him so, _so_ proud. 

He still wants to protect them for as long as he can.

“I’m going to find out what he wants.”

Alfred raises an eyebrow. “And then what?”

Bruce takes a last sip of tea and firmly places the mug on the counter. “Then I’ll do what needs to be done.”

~~

“Thanks for visiting Traveler’s Corner, have a great day.”

Tim waves goodbye to the middle-aged woman as she walks outside, an American girl doll clutched tight to her chest. Light spills weakly through the window and Tim’s stomach rumbles, reminding him that he worked through lunch. Breakfast had been - he looks at his watch with surprise - almost eleven hours ago. A quick glance in his refrigerator when he gets upstairs reminds him that he hasn’t gone grocery shopping for two weeks and that his last frozen dinner had been used the previous night when he decided that it was too cold to walk the seven blocks to the store. 

“Well...shit.” Tim looks up at the ceiling. “I guess I’m eating out tonight.”

There’s a little restaurant a couple of blocks over with great pasta, so Tim bundles up with a winter coat and red knitted scarf and hat. Luckily, the wind has let up over the past few hours, so he only has to deal the bitter cold fighting its way up his sleeves instead of an added wind chill factor. The end of October means fall is almost gone and winter is preparing to make her grand entrance. Unfortunately. When he finally steps inside, the rush of heat is a welcome relief. A waitress walking by gives him an absent smile.

“Just take a seat anywhere and I’ll be right with you.”

He grabs a menu and finds a table in a back corner and sheds his coat, hanging it on the back his chair as he sits down. It doesn’t take long for the waitress to come over and quickly take his drink order, bringing him a water to sip on while he waits. The restaurant is almost full tonight, and Tim entertains himself by watching the customers and trying to deduce the details of their life. He’s just deciding whether the couple three tables down are on a date or are friends with benefits when the door swings open.

Damian Wayne doesn’t even pretend to look around, waving off a questioning waiter as he marches imperiously down the aisle. Tim waits for him to veer off, but instead finds himself looking up in utter confusion as the teenager stops next to his table, glaring at him expectantly. As the whispers start up, Wayne rolls his eyes and pulls out the other chair, sitting down with a challenging stare.

“You’re Timothy Drake.”

Tim waits in bewilderment and when it becomes evident that baby Wayne isn’t going to add anything else, he slowly says, “Yes?” Clearly he needs to start checking his things for tracking devices because there’s no way this meeting is a coincidence. Though it is surprising that the youngest Robin would be this blatant.

Wayne leans back, a calculating move that is only rendered ineffective by Tim’s experience with self-important Board members and prep school heirs. 

“Timothy Drake of Drake Industries. One of the largest companies in Gotham, second only to Wayne Enterprises, leader in medical research and innovation three years running, soon to be branching out into medical nanotechnology in partnership with Gotham University.”

Tim takes a sip of his water. “Dr. Byeon is very excited about that initiative. Young minds and all that.”

His flippancy doesn’t roll well with baby Wayne, who narrows his eyes and leans forward. 

“Timothy Drake of Drake Industries. Abandoned his inheritance at seventeen despite his _apparent_ high-level intelligence to take over a small, insignificant flea shop and promptly left the city, demonstrating an inability to settle or make meaningful connections with other people.” He smirks and settles back into his chair. “Or at least, a lack of desire to do so.”

Tim would be lying if he said Wayne’s words don’t strike a painful cord deep in his chest, a leftover nerve from his childhood. Traveler’s Corner had been more a home than the manor, Joyce more a grandmother than his parents had been, well, parents. But he had come to terms with those things a long time ago. 

“How did you enjoy the shirt?” At baby Wayne’s blank expression, he elaborates. “From my small, insignificant flea shop.” 

Baby Wayne stiffens in his seat. “It was adequate.”

“And your brother? Did he like his purchase?”

“It was fine,” he bites out. 

Tim hums noncommittally. The teenager tenses even more, though Tim can tell that this time it’s more from anger than unease. Luckily, before he opens his mouth the waitress walks up, setting down an iced tea. She’s clearly a bit confused by the addition to the table but does an admirable job of hiding it. 

“Sorry,” she says apologetically. “Can I get you anything to drink, hun?”

“ _Excuse me_?” the teen suddenly sneers. “How dare you call me that, you - ”

“He’ll have a hot green tea, whatever brand you have.” He tilts his head and looks at her nametag. “Do you have any fresh mint, Janice?”

She tears her eyes away from Wayne’s death stare. “Um, I’m not sure. But I can check?”

Tim smiles at her, exuding friendless, and is pleased to see her relax. “That’d be great, thank you.”

The smile drops as soon as she leaves. He turns to the youngest Wayne who is still fuming with his arms crossed. 

“Damian Wayne,” Tim states coldly. “Youngest and only biological son of Bruce Wayne, owner of Wayne Enterprises and head of the Wayne Foundation. Came to his father’s attention at the age of ten under suspicious circumstances - mother is currently unknown though tabloids _do_ speculate. Observation shows that he is curt, rude, and likely to struggle filling his father’s footsteps due to his lack of charisma or genuine compassion.” Tim shows his teeth, feeling an icy pulse of pleasure at Wayne’s widening eyes. “Of course, he is still quite young. Plenty of time to grow into his wings.”

Baby Wayne’s mouth is slightly open and Tim gives him a moment to collect himself, stirring his water sedately with his straw. The waitress returns before the teenager pulls himself together and Tim beams at her as she sets down a small mug with a teabag in it and a sprig of mint on the side. 

“I hope this is okay,” she says shyly as she also puts down a steel carafe with steam coming from the lid. “It’s just your basic green tea but I was able to find some mint we use in our fettuccine.” She looks at Wayne carefully. “Let me know if you need anything else, alright?”

Tim hears an audible click as Wayne shuts his mouth, before grinding out a “Thank you” between his clenched teeth. 

“I think we’re actually ready to order if you don’t mind,” Tim says, grabbing the menu and handing it to her. “The gnocchi and chicken parmigiana look great.”

She nods enthusiastically as she scribbles the order down in her notepad. “The gnocchi in particular is to die for, you’ll love it.”

“That’s for my friend - he’s a vegetarian - but I’ll make sure to steal a bite.” 

Damian Wayne avoids the spotlight, but it had made national news when Bruce Wayne insisted on having an all vegetarian gala last year. Reporters had eaten up the story of animal-lover Damian Wayne with a spoon.

“Oh,” she says in surprise before turning and speaking directly to the teenager. “I’ll let the chef know so we can avoid cross-contamination.”

This time Wayne manages to look almost pleasant as he thanks her for her consideration. Tim watches her leave and looks back at Wayne to find him staring at Tim with an aggressively thoughtful expression.

“You’re smarter than you appear to be,” he finally admits, the words clearly painful for him to say. He wrinkles his nose as he pours the hot water from the carafe into his mug, plucking up the sprig of mint and placing it in about halfway through the pour. The teabag is left in but the kid takes a sip of it anyway, despite how hot it must be. Little lines of tension around his eyes relax though he does not remove his gaze from Tim’s face.

Tim studies the younger boy with consideration. 

“And it seems you’re not as dense as you act.” He takes a long draw from his iced tea before continuing. “I came here to enjoy a nice dinner because I am incapable of remembering to go grocery shopping. I have no qualms allowing you to stay, Mr. Wayne, but I will not tolerate rudeness to the staff that work here, especially not if it is only because I don’t give you the reaction you want, whatever that reaction may be. With that made clear - would you like to stay and eat?”

Robins never do anything as pedestrian as hesitation and the youngest Wayne is no different. “I will,” he declares, “but I shall pay for it as recompense for arriving unannounced.”

It sounds like something a child would learn in etiquette classes and Tim dryly wonders if that was part of the required curriculum after coming to Wayne Manor. He can just imagine the butler herding the various Robins like cats into a classroom. 

“Of course,” he says.

When he leaves an hour later following some of the most awkward conversation he has ever had the displeasure of participating in, it is thirty dollars poorer and with the satisfaction of having pulled one over on the current Robin. 

~~

_Dear Joyce,_

_I’ve started taking Krav Maga classes. It’s actually a lot more useful than I thought it would be. It’s good to be fast, but sometimes you just need to knock someone down and make sure they can’t get up again. This tiny woman teaches the course at the local community center - she’s even smaller than you! I’m pretty sure she could knock me on my ass and will probably do so before the class is finished._

_Is there something in particular you’d like for your birthday? I know, I know, you’ll like anything I get, but if you have something in mind and you’d like to, oh,_ assist _me with ideas, I definitely won’t say no. (For someone who works at a shop like Traveler’s Corner, I’m absolutely awful at buying gifts.)_

_Also, I finally packed up my scarves yesterday. I think spring has finally arrived, even here in Quebec (and before you ask, no, my French has not gotten worse - I may have picked up an accent though). I can’t wait until next year so I can break them out again!_

_Yours affectionately,  
Tim_

~~

There are three things in life that Barbara is absolutely sure of.

One is that her dad is going to get himself killed one day on the job and there’s nothing she can do to stop it. It’s a miracle he’s survived as long as he has, what with every crook and crooked cop gunning for him over the years, not to mention the general fatality rates for law enforcement personnel in Gotham. But asking him to stop would be like asking her to stop coding - it would kill something inside him that could never recover.

Two is, despite the fact that fighting against evil cost her her legs, she’ll never regret putting on the cape and becoming Batgirl. She has a lot of regrets, going way back into her childhood, but choosing to help people, the people she sees on the streets? That’ll never be one of them, not even in those brief moments she can’t breathe for wishing she could walk.

And three. 

Three is that her little makeshift Bat-family, every last member of it, is a bunch of emotionally constipated, uncommunicative, self-flagellating morons. Stephanie is the only exception and Barbara is convinced it’s because she took over the other girl’s training after her almost-murder and they actually _talked_ about the situation instead of burying fresh trauma under vigilante escapades. Unfortunately, that doesn’t seem to be a skill the boys picked up on growing up - though to be fair, not a single one of them had a childhood conducive to emotional processing. Hell, it took her years to get Jason to even _consider_ sitting down with Leslie. The less said about Damian the better.

Sometimes they drive her to drink - it’s a good thing she only stocks red wine.

“Hey, Babs,” Dick says from behind her and her heart leaps into her throat.

“Geez, Dick!” she chokes out, her hand going to her chest as she tries to force her heart to slow by sheer will. “Make a noise or something!”

“Sorry,” he says sheepishly, coming around and pulling up the infamous beanbag chair. 

When he doesn’t add anything else, she’s suspicious. “Something going on?” She thinks back - Steph’s patrolling on her own right now since Damian has a test tomorrow. Bruce has a lot of flaws, but making sure Damian is up to par on his schoolwork isn’t one of them. Though… “Is it Bruce?”

“No, no,” Dick sighs. It makes her stop and really look at him. His usual brightness is dimmed and he looks just...tired. 

“Hey,” she says, softer. “Is everything alright?”

He looks at her and his expression is inscrutable. It’s unnerving. She doesn’t like it. 

“Everything’s fine, Babs,” he answers eventually. “Just wanted to spend some time with you.” He smiles.

Barbara’s cheeks heat and she clears her throat. “Well. That’s fine. You can help me on comms tonight then. Just remember that I’m the one in charge - you always have the worst ideas.”

He gives her a look, his mouth twisted between exasperation and amusement, but he grabs the other headset, shooting her an irrepressible grin.

Barbara is absolutely sure of three things. The third thing is that her little makeshift Bat-family is full of emotionally constipated, uncommunicative, self-flagellating morons. 

She loves them all anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Happy almost Thanksgiving to Americans and happy normal day to pretty much everyone else! 
> 
> You may have noticed that this work is now part of a series which is because I have started posting some side stories in this universe! The first is  a river flows backward (The Saga of the Eel-Giraffes) and I have more stories coming (yes, Alfred will have his own feature because HE DESERVES IT)!! 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has left comments or kudos or just enjoyed readying this story. Every time I see a person's reaction, I just break into a huge smile knowing that it's brought someone a moment of enjoyment.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce visits a friend, Tim gets some much needed exercise, and Jason is reminded why he usually hates his family.

_Dear Tim,_

__

__

_I can’t believe that you’ve been running Traveler’s Corner for three years now! It seems like just yesterday you stumbled in through the door and your mother strong-armed you into working for me. I hope that today is as wonderful and special as you are - and as you are very special, that’s saying a lot._

_I’m participating in a recital at the rink in a couple of weeks. It’s usually just the little ones who are learning to skate and some of the older skaters that never competed nationally, but my instructor said that I was doing so well she decided I should be included! I’ll be skating to that one song from that musical about the cats._

_I’ll try to get someone to take a video so you can see it. I know you would be here if you could, but don’t worry, I know you’re cheering me on from the great white north!_

_Hugs and kisses,  
Joyce_

~~

“Batman!” Zatanna grins as she gives her punching bag one last hit. Walking toward him, she grabs a towel from the bench and wipes the sweat from her face. “Long time no see.”

It has been a while since Bruce has been able to visit the Watchtower. The inability to teleport or fly aside, the Justice League had been lucky enough to have a cohort of Green Lanterns visiting Hal, all of whom are more likely to get bored than not and who also consider galactic missions in this quadrant to be a particularly stirring variety of a milk run. With things handled in space, Bruce had been able to dedicate himself solely to Gotham for the past months. It’s less imperative for him to be constantly present now that the children have grown enough to function independently - it still shocks him sometimes that, excluding Damian, all his children are adults. 

“Zatanna,” he greets. “I need to consult with you on a case in Gotham if you have the time.”

She frowns a bit, confusion written in the crease of her brow. “Sure. Let me get cleaned off and we can talk.”

He nods. “I’ll be in Conference room 2 when you’re done.”

As he walks through the halls, he goes through the data again. Finding information on Timothy Drake had been surprisingly easy. His juvenile records were sealed of course, but the information was still there for the taking rather than being wiped from the servers like Bruce expected. However once he left school, data became sparser. No registered phone, an email address with nothing but spam and Drake Industries communication in the inbox - the only thing of obvious value. Nothing left a trail of his activities besides the paperwork that would mysteriously appear on city files whenever his store opened in a new location.

The shop - Traveler’s Corner - now that is what really causes the sirens to go off in the back of Bruce’s mind. The only paperwork existing on Traveler’s Corner he could locate was with Drake’s name on it. When he searched for records of inheritance or ownership change, there was nothing to be found. As far as any digital records show, Traveler’s Corner popped into existence when Timothy Drake turned seventeen, contradicting the words that came straight from the source.

From Bruce’s experience, magic users tend to specialize in narrow fields - Zatanna is one of the rare exceptions due to her heritage and incredible power reserves. For all records to have been scrubbed of the shop’s history, Bruce would expect a highly specialized mage that focused solely on digital manipulation - but that doesn’t ring true when he considers all the angles. Whatever the shop’s purpose, that must be fueled by magic as well. 

As he looks out into the blackness of space through the conference room window, he wonders if he should have enlisted Dick or Barbara to assist in his investigation. But…

His thoughts are interrupted as the door slides open. Zatanna walks in, dressed in civilian clothes and hair still damp. She gives him a nod, her face all business.

“What’ve you got for me, B?”

“Not as much as I would like,” he responds, pulling out a flashdrive and inserting it into the table port. A picture of Tim Drake flashes onto an empty wall. “Do you recognize this man?”

Zatanna tilts her head and narrows her eyes, studying the man intently. “No,” she says after a pause. “He doesn’t look familiar. Is he a practitioner?”

“Not sure. He might be or he might be adjacent to the actual source.”

She straightens, an eyebrow cocking upward. “Have you already determined the source? What do you need me for then?”

He swipes to the next picture as an answer. The storefront of Traveler’s Corner pops up, aged red brick and a worn, wooden door framing the sign with the shop’s name above. It looks ordinary in the photo, like any shop you might find on a street corner.

“I need to know what this place is,” he explains curtly. 

“It’s not familiar, but - ” She stops, looking up, one eye shut as she tries to remember something. “The name is. I’ll need to do some research but I’m almost certain I know that name from somewhere.” She looks over at him. “How time sensitive is this?”

Bruce hums in consideration. “The sooner the better. He’s been operating for months already.”

Zatanna lifts one eyebrow. “Wow, and you haven’t terrified him out of town yet? That’s showing an awful lot of restraint for you, B.”

He rolls his eyes internally, carefully keeping his expression blank. The cowl is meant to not only protect his identity, but also conceal his thoughts. Unfortunately, Zatanna’s always been annoyingly perceptive, particularly when it comes to gleaning full facial expressions just from the bottom half of his face. “I don’t move without sufficient data. Let me know when you have something for me.”

“Aye aye, captain!” Zatanna snarks, grinning while giving a lazy salute. Then she becomes serious. “But really, keep me updated. I know Gotham’s your baby but if this guy’s got you worried that’s enough of a red flag to have me concerned.”

“I’ll convey any pertinent information that comes up.” With that said, Bruce takes the flashdrive. “I appreciate your help.”

After the transporter beams him back to the Batcave, Bruce updates his personal files. Barbara almost certainly knows about the general files, but she is smart enough not to go poking around in electronic hidey-holes unless she thinks there is pertinent information there that a team member would be unwilling to share. It happened more than once when Damian first arrived and was learning the way Batman operated, eventually leading to a blow-up that actually required physical intervention on Bruce’s part. He keeps his notes sparse and heavily coded; even Barbara couldn’t figure them out without a lot of time and effort that she would almost certainly rather spend elsewhere. 

Patrol is unusually quiet, and not only because he’s running one of his nights alone. He doesn't like it. With some of the big name villains currently locked away, there should be more villains-to-be moving in the shadows, not less. Especially considering the blow Jason had dealt to Penguin’s operations - a blow that Jason didn’t report, didn’t share, and for some reason thought that Bruce would overlook - there should be a major power vacuum in the criminal circles of Gotham. 

The fact that there doesn't seem to be one is a major cause for concern.

“I think it may be time to call it a night, sir?”

Bruce frowns as he swings by an apartment window, hearing screams from inside. A quick glance shows it’s just a teenager staying up way too late to watch horror films. “Alfred? I thought Barbara was on comms tonight?”

“Not to worry,” Alfred says calmly over the radio. “I believe she and Master Dick have gone for a walk around the grounds of the Manor to keep themselves alert. I volunteered to take over until they return.”

Barbara and Dick have been spending more time together alone the past couple of weeks, so much so that Bruce has to wonder what triggered the change. Their feelings had remained evident even in the years following their break-up, but it wasn’t his place to interfere. 

Not like he had a shining record himself. If there was a competition, his ward would definitely be winning.

“I’m not picking anything up on the scanner, sir, nor has there been any criminal activity beyond the low-level. One night say that the night is _sleeping_.”

Bruce rolls his eyes. “I get it, Alfred. I’ll start heading back to the cave.”

He can picture the exact expression on Alfred’s face as he drolly answers, “Very good, sir.”

It doesn’t take him long to shed the armor when he gets back to the manor an hour later and he’s surprised to find Barbara still sitting at the monitor. She gives him a tired smile.

“Dick went up a while ago, but I didn’t feel like going to bed yet, not until I finishing finalizing the files from the Riddler case.”

Bruce frowns. “You don’t need to those now. I don’t want you working on cases when you’re tired.”

He notices her stiffen a bit in her chair. “I didn’t want to sleep yet. I know when I can’t work anymore, Bruce. You don’t need to worry.”

Clearly, she’s made her mind up and he knows better than to lecture her on self-care - it would hypocrisy of the highest order. “Well, try to get some rest soon. Your room is always ready for you.”

Some of the tension leaves her shoulders and she gives him a small smile. “Thanks. I’ll try to be in bed before the sun comes up.”

He peeks in on Damian, dead to the world for another few hours at least with Ace snoring at his feet. Then he takes a familiar path, though one he hasn’t had cause to use as often recently. Dick got his own place after his return from Bludhaven and even though he still commutes there once in a while, Gotham has become home base. Even with that though, it’s taken a long time for Dick to feel comfortable coming to the manor and, sleeping there? As rare as Alfred’s special occasion cookies.

The old bedroom door is open and Bruce stops in the doorway. 

“Quiet evening?”

Dick looks over from where he’s hanging a shirt in the closet. “Not too much to speak of. Only went out for a couple of hours.” He chuckles as he closes the closet door. “Damian was pissed he had to stay in, but what else is new?”

“Did he finish - “

“His presentation?” Dick finishes. “Yeah, first thing I checked on when I got here. You coming tomorrow?”

Words get stuck in his throat and the light in Dick’s eyes dim as Bruce stands in silence. The sigh he lets out is tinged with disappointment.

“Bruce, I know you never said you were going for sure but Damian wants you there and really, he hasn’t wanted much lately. You need to go.”

Dick must not remember his own school days that well is all Bruce can think. Any sign of Gotham’s crown prince and paparazzi appeared out of the woodwork, attention suddenly redirected from students to the billionaire sitting in the center row. The craning necks and whispers were intolerable to Bruce, but he’d never wanted to miss an event unless it was unavoidable, something that happened more than he liked.

He’d kept showing up until Jason finally asked him not to - “I know you care, you don’t need to be there, it gets kinda crazy when you are” - and he’d respected that.

_“Isn’t there anything you want?”_

His mouth opens and the words, “I’ll be there,” come out without his permission.

He’s not offended by the surprise on Dick’s face though it does send an ache through his chest when the hint of disbelief still lingers in Dick’s eyes.

“...Okay,” Dicks says. “We’ll see see you at two o’clock.”

~~

Dick doesn’t see Bruce at two o’clock and instead sits next to an empty seat in the auditorium, fuming. It takes him twenty minutes to realize that Damian’s scowl is a five on a scale of ten instead of the usual eight he wears for school functions. Dick waits for a change in presenters before sneaking a surreptitious glance at the back of the room.

It takes him a second, but there Bruce is, wearing a variation of his Matches Malone disguise with a much nicer suit and a goatee that he could never pull off as Bruce Wayne, billionaire. He hasn’t wore that persona in years.

Dick casually turns back to the stage and watches as Damian stands up and gives an uncharacteristically impassioned presentation about puppy mills. It’s the most entertaining and moving speech Dick has had the pleasure to witness in a long, long time.

"Great job!" he says afterward, pulling Damian in for a hug and snickering as the teenager squirms. Damian scoffs, but can't quite hide the pleased quirk of his lips.

"Do you think Father thought it was - sufficiently researched?"

"I think he loved it," Dick declares with a grin. "But you can ask him yourself when we get home."

~~

When Tim chose to start running in Old Gotham, it was under the assumption that criminals would be slightly wary of getting too close to PD Headquarters, therefore leaving innocent bystanders alone. Clearly, his Gotham version of common sense deteriorated during his time away from Gotham. And now he’s running from the freaking three stooges. 

The sun isn’t even totally set yet - they have to be breaking some Gotham criminal rule.

At least they only have one gun between them, he thinks as he sprints around the corner of the Cathedral, his camera clutched tight in his hands. They don’t seem to want to waste bullets either, which is rare practicality in a Gotham criminal. They’ll probably go far if they manage to avoid the notice of the vigilante circuit.

He’s only half paying attention to where he’s running, something that he immediately regrets when he makes a left turn too early and finds himself staring at a new construction wall blocking the other end of the alley. A quick glance around gives him nothing but a dumpster and no doors. The only windows lead into the second story and the alley walls are too far apart for him to run and jump his way up to grab a ledge. 

Well, shit.

“You know,” pants a blond man from the mouth of the alley, “you’re making this a lot harder than it needs to be.” He had been the one to start the whole attempted robbery, so Tim assumes he’s the leader of the little band of thugs that can’t seem to get the hint. When he keeps talking, Tim mentally awards himself a star and tunes the guy out with prejudice. 

Two other men run up behind him, both clearly struggling for breath. The one on the right is a little chunky and the other has an afro that wouldn’t look out of place on a Motown star and Tim immediately dubbs them Larry and and Curly, which makes the one who has launched into a monologue Moe. None of them wear the usual ragged or dark-colored clothing low-class criminals tend to gravitate to, choosing to dress like average civilians.

Tim really thought they were breaking the criminal mold, but the unnecessary monologue just set them back ten villain points in his mental scorecard. 

“Look,” he says, his hands raised peacefully. “I don’t want any trouble. Honest to God.”

Gangster Larry snickers. “If you don’t want trouble then you can just hand over your wallet and that fancy-looking camera hanging ‘round your neck. Otherwise there’s gonna be a _lot_ of trouble, got it?”

There’s no way in hell he’s giving his camera to a bunch of idiot criminals - it’s a matter of pride, really. This camera isn’t even one of his nice models. 

“Okay,” he says calmly, slowly lifting the strap over his head. Instead of holding it out though, he lowers it to the ground, placing it slightly behind him. He tosses his wallet and phone to the side as well.

Gangster Moe scowls. “Do you think we’re joking here?” He raises the gun, and Tim notices that his hand is shaking a little. Larry and Curly both brandish knives threateningly, but they hold them all wrong - one hit to their wrists would make them drop like hot iron. 

“Oh, I’m sure you’re very serious,” he answers earnestly. “I believe you, but you see, I just don’t feel I can give you my things in good conscience. You haven’t done anything to earn them and I don’t like to reward laziness.”

“Earn them?!” Gangster Curly sputters. 

“How’s this for earning them?” snarls Gangster Moe, and Tim is already dodging to the left as Moe’s finger pulls the trigger. Moe’s arm jerks up at the recoil just like Tim predicted and the shot goes wide, ricocheting up off the brick wall. Tim sprints forward as Moe recovers and managed to grab his wrist, twisting it sharply. The gun goes tumbling to the ground as Moe lets out a yell that cuts off when Tim’s other hand comes up with a quick jab to his throat.

Larry comes at him with his knife, holding it with a saber grip. Tim almost laughs.

“That’s not proper technique,” Tim quips before lashing out with a sharp jab at the open area where Larry’s palm cradles the handle, sending the knife clattering from his spasming fingers. 

To his credit, Larry doesn’t hesitate, lashing out with his fists. Tim steps back, watching carefully. As Larry comes in for a second charge, Curly decides to join the fray, leaping forward. 

Tim has rarely sparred with more than one person at a time, and a glance to the left shows that Moe is regaining his breath, his hand still hovering over his throat. If he wants to have any hope of getting out of here without serious injury, he needs to put these guys down and make sure they stay there. 

“What, is that all you got?” he taunts Larry and Curly, his mind quickly formulating a hopefully successful strategy. 

This time when Larry swings at him, Tim catches his fist and yanks it down, sending the other man into a flip that ends with a loud thud as he lands heavily on his back. Without stopping for a breath, Tim side kicks the other knife from Curly’s grasp as he runs forward, spinning around with a roundhouse to the would-be-thief’s face that sends the guy down with a satisfying crack. A hoarse cough comes from behind him and he pivots, just in time to get his hands braced to grab Moe’s shoulders as the gangster charges him, his face contorted in an ugly mask of rage. Tim stumbles as he steps at an angle, trying to avoid Larry’s sporadically moving legs. The loss of balance costs him. He can’t toss Moe down like he hoped without leverage so instead he lets himself fall, carrying the other man down with him. 

They land hard on the ground, with Moe half on top of Larry who begins to struggle in earnest as his airflow is cut off by Moe’s weight across his chest. Tim wastes no time springing to his feet. Then, with no hesitation, Tim plants his back foot and swings his other leg around, connecting solidly with Moe’s head. 

The blond drops like a stone and Tim ignores the tinge of concern that springs up in his chest. The guy had tried to shoot him - a little roundhouse to the face is nothing less than he deserves. 

Larry weakly pushes at Moe’s limp body, trying to maneuver the other man off him. 

“You should probably just stay there,” Tim advises him frankly. A quick check assures Tim that Curly is alive, but still unconscious, either from the kick or the hard contact with the ground. 

What the hell is he going to do with three criminals? He walks back over to where the whole mess began and picks up his camera, placing it carefully back around his neck. He’s just leaning down to grab his wallet and phone (best to just call this in probably) when - 

“Hello, Mr. Drake.”

“ _Holy_ \- “

Tim spins around, crouching as his hands fly up automatically into a defensive position. It takes him a moment - the sun had almost completely fallen below the horizon during his fight - but when he recognizes the figure tucked away in the shadows, he frowns, straightening up as he puts his hands down.

“Nightwing?” Then what the vigilante said registers. “Um, hi.”

This is awkward, Tim thinks as he stares at Dick Grayson in his Nightwing outfit. This is really awkward. Because it seems like Nightwing just watched him mow down some muggers which, obviously, is a bit out of character for the average Gothamite. And whatever reaction he’s supposed to be giving after being confronted by a guy dressed up as a unspecified creature of the night, he definitely is not giving it, judging by the expectant silence that just - keeps - _going_. But he’s just fought off three wanna-be criminals and the adrenaline is already fading so he simply does not have the energy to quiver in his running shoes right now. 

“Can I help you with something?” he finally prompts when the silence is pushing the edge of absurd. 

The other man strides slowly out of the shadows, and if it was strange seeing Dick Grayson in his shop, it’s surreal watching Nightwing walk toward him, the electric blue shining against black in the ambient light. He kneels down without turning his back to Tim and begins to bind the wrists of the three stooges.

“You had a run in with a colleague of mine a while ago.” Nightwing’s voice is pitched slightly lower than normal and has a sing-song lilt to it that reminds Tim of something faint in his childhood, a woman who would clean the house and sometimes, if he asked very nicely, would tell him stories of her home in Hungary. 

Tim should be acting frightened, but seriously?

“Which one? By my count I’ve met a couple.”

Nightwing stops abruptly, then makes a noise Tim chooses to interpret as amused. “Don’t play games, Mr. Drake. You know who I’m talking about.” He checks the restraints and must find them satisfactory because he stands up, facing Tim squarely.

“I really don’t.” He has to fight back to urge to cross his arms defensively. It would be very out of character for Dick Grayson to rough up someone who hasn’t done anything, but after five years away, Tim can’t say what Nightwing will or won’t do. 

The surprise at being confronted is wearing off though and his mind quickly spins through the reason why Nightwing would even bother in the first place. He’d been expecting the surveillance and none of the Bats had disappointed on that front, what with the number of CCTV cameras suddenly installed along his street and the hints of their presence they left behind for those savvy enough to recognize them. Baby Wayne, despite inheriting his father’s scowl, is clearly overly impulsive and used to viewing himself as the undisputed leader. Tim can almost excuse his decision the ambush him at the restaurant. But Dick? Dick’s been operating as a vigilante for over a decade, a good portion of that under Batman himself. He should know better than to show his hand like this, especially not when a team member has already made overtures. Unless…

Unless they aren’t coordinating. Robin didn’t let Nightwing know about their conversation, Batgirl didn’t tell him that she had come to the shop in civilian clothes, and now Dick is trying to get more intel through his vigilante persona because any normal human being would be terrified, even if they actually _didn’t_ do anything wrong, and spill their guts like an overfilled burrito. And it probably would work on anyone who wasn’t Tim because he knows who they are. Or rather, he knows who _most_ them are.

It’s unlikely he is going to get a better opportunity that this to get some data regarding his tentatively formulated hypothesis so he decides to go all in.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he says, putting an almost indiscernible quiver in his voice and pushing his hands out, as if trying to keep distance between himself and the crazy person. Enough fear to be believable but not so much that it’ll be a complete personality shift when he drops the act. “I didn’t know he worked with you. I thought maybe, but you never know around Gotham.”

The mask hides most of Nightwing’s expression when he coldly says, “It’s common knowledge so I’ll need more than ‘I’m sorry’ if you want to walk away with all your limbs intact.”

Wow, he’s really laying it on thick. Apparently he went for a total persona shift when he changed costumes. To be fair, no one would take Robin seriously if he said something like that. Especially with the rather unfortunate lack of pants.

“Look,” Tim says, a bit firmer now. “I didn’t even know who he was - you can ask him. I gave him a nickname and he _corrected_ me.”

Nightwing cocks his head. “Everyone knows Robin.” He says it as a statement. He’s not wrong either.

Tim lets a hint of confusion crease his forehead. “Robin? No, Red Hood. I didn’t know he was with you.”

He can actually see Nightwing’s shoulders tense. “Red Hood.”

“Yes?” Tim says slowly. “Red leather theme, weird looking helmet?”

“Why do you think he was with me?” Nightwing grits out. 

There’s definitely some history there Tim notes. Nightwing is currently talking to someone he should trust _less_ than he could throw, yet he’s not denying a relationship. Given his background and training, if mentioning Red Hood throws him this much off guard, then it’s a relationship with a _lot_ of baggage. 

Tim risks a small shrug. “He was...kind.”

Even with the mask, the disbelief is obvious. “Kind,” he states flatly.

And Tim stops for a moment. He stops and he thinks about the night he met Red Hood and everything that happened and, “Yes. He was kind.”

“ _How_?”

Tim manages to reign in his desire to shrug. “He didn’t want me to see that he kept watch as I walked home. He was worried.” When Nightwing doesn’t react, he adds, “People don’t worry unless they care, and people who care have at least a little kindness in them, even if they try to hide it.”

Nightwing just stands there looking down a bit, his lips in a tight line. It’s late though, and Tim is tired and slightly annoyed, and his curiosity has been satisfied for now. 

“I need to go home. Is that alright with you?”

“What?” Nightwing looks up quickly, his attention pulled back to Tim. “I - ”

“Look, I don’t know what you want from me, but I know you’re one of the good guys so next time just come by my apartment or something. I’ll even make hot chocolate. You can invite Red Hood!” he adds as a parting shot, just a joke.

To his surprise, a bright flash of teeth answer him. 

“I might take you up on that.”

Crap. 

“Please,” Tim mutters plaintively. “Don’t.”

With a bright laugh, Nightwing launches up into the sky, calling out, “Don’t forget about your muggers!”

Tim sighs as he looks down and Larry, still the only one conscious, says feelingly, “What the fuck, man?”

“Trust me,” Tim answers morosely as he pulls out his phone and dials the number for the Gotham PD. “You don’t want to know.”

~~

Jason is sitting on his couch in his underwear catching up on the latest episodes of Game of Thrones when a knock comes from his window. 

“Go away, Dick!” he yells. 

Beyond not having to deal with more Bat nonsense than is strictly necessary, Jason stopped living in asbestos-filled deathtraps around the same time he decided that his vendetta was more useful when he focused on going after systematic criminals rather than two-bit wannabes with chips on their shoulders. Not to say he wouldn’t kick ass when the occasion presented itself, but his strategies for dealing with the Gotham underworld had evolved into a longer term sort of set up. Which meant an actual homebase, even if he still kept his other boltholes stocked up, just in case.

He had been careful in setting up his main apartment so that none of the Bat-nnoyances would know where it was, using a new fake identity, one that he’d built up with an entire personal history, complete with paperwork, so no one would have any idea that Jason Todd lives there instead of Robert Law, Jr. 

Unfortunately, the tapping noise continues unabated. Jason growls as he stands up, walking over the window and disabling the two traps he has set up around the frame. Usually there’d be more, but Jason tends to use this window as his exit when in costume. It faces a blank brick wall and being on the top floor means no one can see him by accident when he leaves.

Dick watches him expectantly, making a ‘hurry up’ gesture. Jason sarcastically grins and raises his middle finger tauntingly. 

“Why do you know about this place?” he asks when he raises the window, stepping back as Dick somersaults into the apartment like the drama queen he is. 

“Barbara,” Dick says simply. 

Jason scowls. Of course. He’s gonna need to find out what gave him away this time. Five months isn’t a bad run though considering she found him within two at his last apartment.

“By the way, loving the decor, very 1950s.” Dick collapses on the coach, propping his feet up on the table.

Jason’s fingers start itching for his gun. 

“What do you want, Dick?” Jason grinds out. 

Dick is smart enough to realize when Jason is reaching the end of his rope. “You remember Timothy Drake?” he asks with the slightest hint of apology in his tone.

“Yes, Dick-for-brains, I remember Drake.” As if he could forget. “What, did you find something on him?”

“...In a way.” 

Dick’s gaze drifts to the left and Jason’s eyes narrow because Dick doesn’t have too many tells, but that’s definitely one of them.

“What did you do?” Jason demands and Dick sighs, as if Jason’s the one being difficult.

“I _may_ have talked to him after he beat up some muggers.”

“The hell, Dick?!”

Dick throws his arms out, spreading them wide. “What else was I supposed to do?” He says with exasperation. “The guy was just _there_ and I just started my patrol, it was practically fate! And,” he adds, pointing at Jason, “I got good intel on his capabilities that we wouldn’t have otherwise. So I think the proper response is ‘Thank you, Dick, for taking some fucking initiative’. Since I know that’s not gonna happen, I will proactively say, you’re welcome.”

How like Dick to come in, metaphorical guns blazing, and try to defend something that is - objectively speaking - an incredibly idiotic decision that was almost certainly made on the spur of the moment.

“So then, in a _shocking_ turn of events, you have done a stupid thing yet again. That’s got nothing to with me. I already told you that unless it’s making a move the get rid of this guy, I want no part of it. I got my own cases to work.” 

“Well, I’m about to make this your case. I have gotten you,” he says with a flourish of his wrist, “an invitation.”

“To _what_?”

Dick grins. 

“Hot chocolate.”

~~

_Joyce,_

__

__

_I’m coming home. I’ll see you soon._

_Love,  
Tim_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So if you were to ask me what I did the past two weeks, unfortunately the answer would not be writing. I think I wrote _maybe_ a thousand words and that was like, in the past three days. So hopefully I'm getting back in the groove *fingers crossed* 
> 
> (Also I've never written a fight scene which is probably....very obvious. I TRIED MY BEST I PROMISE)
> 
> Luckily, I try to stay at least one chapter ahead at any given time so I at least have this to offer you for the next two weeks!! Thanks everyone for the kudos and comments as well!! You make my day when I read them ^_^
> 
> And a question for anyone who might want to answer: Who is your favorite character in the DC Universe and why? 
> 
> Mine is obviously Tim, mostly because I think he's one of the most complex characters in the most understated way and I love the way he basically just said, 'so yeah, Batman is clearly falling apart. I'm Robin now.' Knew exactly what he was getting into and just did it anyway (which is crazy but still) (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ♡


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A long-awaited face appears, Damian and Stephanie watch HGTV, and Anna Karenina spoilers abound.

_“Hello?”_

_“Is this Mr. Timothy Drake speaking?”_

_“Yes, this is he.”_

_“This is Ms. Patel from Gotham General Hospital. You are the emergency contact for Joyce Santos, correct?”_

_“...”_

_“Mr. Drake? Are you still there?”_

~~

“Hello, stranger! Long time no see.”

Despite the anxiety churning in his stomach, Tim can’t help but smile. “Hello, Joyce.”

Her wrinkled face beams up at him from where she sits in her wheelchair, a bright purple shawl wrapped around her shoulders. She’s wearing an orange knitted hat, too, and a striped green and red dress that she only breaks out during December – Christmas spirit should only be reserved for the Christmas season she’d told him once. 

“I’m so sorry I couldn’t make our normal day, I – ”

“Nonsense!” she scolds him. She starts to stand up and Tim hurriedly puts his arm out, letting her grab on to pull herself up and carefully pushing her wheelchair away so she doesn’t trip. “You have a lot going on, sweetheart, I know that. Now let’s go for a walk in the garden.” She checks over her shoulder and grins cheekily. “Those poor nurses have a heart attack every time I use these old legs, but I think it’s good for them – gets their blood pumping.”

Tim rolls his eyes fondly, but agrees. They slowly walk down the white halls, Tim watching subtly to make sure the Joyce is steady on her feet, especially since she’s wearing slippers instead of her normal tennis shoes. At least three nurses shoot them worried glances on their way out and each time Joyce widely grins at them in response, her eyes dancing in amusement. Once they step outside onto the garden path, Joyce stands a little straighter, walking with more confidence.

“So how’s rehab going?” Tim asks.

Joyce shrugs. “It’s going as well as it can. I think they’re just concerned since it’s my second time here in four years.”

Tim’s eyebrows creep upwards. “It was a bit more serious this time, Joyce. I can see why they’d be worried.”

She stops and Tim gently wraps his hand around her elbow as she leans down, taking in the scent of the blue pansies. She sighs as she straightens.

“I know, dear. But I really am doing much better. The doctor says the surgery went well and I only have another few weeks here until I can go home as long as I continue improving like I am.” She squeezes his arm where she’s holding on. “That’ll teach me to take up skateboarding for my 70th birthday.”

He doesn’t tell her that he almost had a panic attack when he got the call from the hospital. He’d made Joyce put him down as one of her emergency contacts after she hurt herself ice skating, but he’d never actually thought he’d pick up the phone one day and hear a social worker telling him that his grandmother was in intensive surgery. Worse, he’d been stuck in Seattle despite how desperate he was to just abandon his post and run to Gotham if he had to. He’d resigned himself to not being there when the humming sensation had tickled at the back of his mind. When he realized that he was being called back to Gotham, he had thanked the universe for not being a dick - for once. 

They had a standing lunch date for every other Sunday, but last time Tim hadn’t been able to shake the suspicion that someone was following him. Whether it was a Bat or someone else, there was no way he was going to lead them to Joyce, especially not when she was still in the middle of recovering from two broken legs, one of which had been a compound fracture, luckily below the knee. Of course, Joyce understood why he canceled, but he didn’t like having to do it. 

“Now,” Joyce says, sitting down on a bench, “tell what has you so worked up.” He opens his mouth to protest, stopping when she gives him a knowing look. 

The niggling at the back of his mind has grown into a gnawing question that is starting to make him lose sleep. Bruce Wayne walked out of Traveler’s Corner with nothing and in doing so turned everything Tim thought he knew upside down. And as a result, he’s developed a selfish fear that he can’t quite smother.

“When I came to the shop,” he says slowly, rolling the words around in his mouth, “the first time. There was a sign in the window.”

She nods. “There was.”

“And I didn’t find anything, like it said. ‘Must not find anything.’ So you hired me.”

She tilts her head. “Yes,” she says, “and no.”

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“I did hire you,” she agrees. “And it was because you didn’t find anything. That was very important. But not everyone who doesn’t find something needs the same thing.”

“I don’t understand.” People don’t walk out of Traveler’s Corner with nothing, not once in the entire time he had worked there. That is the point of it after all - that’s what the shop _does_. 

“I never told you how I became the owner of Traveler’s Corner, did I?”

He shakes his head. The first time he asked he was thirteen and Joyce’s face had adopted such an expression of sadness that he decided he wouldn’t ask again, not until she decided she was ready to let him know. Traveler’s Corner was one of the best things that ever happened to him. He couldn’t imagine what made it so sad for her.

“When I was thirty years old,” she begins, “I was living in Chicago. I had just moved to the United States from the Philippines and everything was so horribly different - the food was wrong, the clothes, even the trees. I was drowning in homesickness. Then I saw this little shop.” She smiles softly, her eyes misty with memory. “I walked inside and the most beautiful man I’d ever seen was behind the counter. We got to talking and he was just as kind and funny as he was beautiful. It didn’t even occur to me to actually buy something - I mostly looked around as an excuse to keep talking with him. When I finally left he _ran_ after me.”

Joyce blinks, huffing a bit of a laugh as she turns to Tim. “We were married a month later.”

Whatever the expression on his face is, it must be hilarious because Joyce laughs loudly when she sees it, her head thrown back in mirth. But seriously, a _month_? There’s moving a bit fast and then there’s moving at hyperspeed, and Tim would never have thought Joyce fell into the latter group.

“Ah,” she sighs happily. “I loved him very much, you know.” Her smile fades a bit as she adds, “It was very hard to lose him.” Her eyes are distant and little sad, looking off into a time that Tim can’t see. But the sadness is tempered by acceptance and by remembered joy, hovering in the crows feet that appear at the corners of her eyes and the quirk of her mouth. 

“What was his name?” Tim asks quietly. 

There’s a pause before she says, “Jonathan. His name was Jonathan.”

He squeezes her hand and they sit in silence for a moment. 

Tim never researched Joyce when he started working at Traveler’s Corner - and Traveler’s Corner itself had turned up only dead ends. Curious he may have been, but he knew better than to go digging into the personal life of someone who’d given him no cause for concern - had done the opposite in caring for him as her own. He doesn’t know how long it’s been since she lost her Jonathan, but the ache probably still clings to her. He wishes she had felt she could confide in him before. 

“Sometimes - rarely - a person comes to Traveler’s Corner who doesn’t need an item. They need a person.” Then, her eyes crinkling as she smiles, she cups his cheek in her palm, gentle and soft and loving. “I needed my husband. And you - “

“ _I_ ,” he interrupts softly, reaching up to cover her hand with his own, “needed you.”

There’s nothing more to say.

~~

Damian is far more aware than people like to give him credit for. 

Hindsight has shown him that he was, perhaps, not the most amiable person when he first sought out his father. There may have been one or two attempted murders before he realized that behavior was not only unacceptable, but also incompatible with his father’s mission. But through trial and error, he learned the importance of observation and self-analysis.

For example, he knows that, despite his best efforts, he has come to view the other children Father fostered as his siblings, something that his mother finds objectionable despite her residual affection for Todd. She also found his embracing of Father’s moral stances intolerable which in turn led to the creation of a clone - one that would have killed him had Grayson not believed him when he explained his mother’s plan and prepared for the League’s assassins accordingly. Killing the clone, despite the necessity, had only solidified his choice to separate himself from his mother and her plots. Of all of these things, he is aware.

So he was aware when Father began distancing himself from his children and that there is some emotional reason behind the frankly idiotic decision. He notices that Todd hasn’t killed anyone in almost a year and Grayson has finally started relaxing when on patrol, the stress from policing family along with foes dissipating. He sees that Brown has started hovering more around the medical bay and that the first question she asks when returning from patrol is whether someone is injured. Even Gordon has started smiling back at Grayson - Damian thinks they’ll start dating again soon. 

And, irritatingly, he is aware that Drake made some valid points after Damian interrupted his dinner, earning him Damian’s grudging respect. Very grudging. 

Grayson would normally be the person Damian goes to about a subject like this. When Father was...on hiatus, Grayson acted as a surrogate Batman and therefore was, for all intents and purposes, Damian’s mission leader. However, as he’s gotten older, he’s realized that Grayson, for all his admirable qualities as both a mentor and surrogate older sibling, is quite dense when it comes to certain things. 

That is why he stands in front of the apartment Brown bought following her mother’s departure from Gotham, bundled up in his heaviest winter jacket as he curses the cold, trying to swallow his pride and knock on the door. 

He’s still waffling with one of the wood panels says in a sarcastic tone, “You gonna come in anytime soon, Demon Brat?”

Tension recedes from his shoulders as he rolls his eyes. “I was attempting to utilize proper decorum, but clearly such courtesy is wasted on someone of your low breeding, Brown.”

The wood panel simpers. “You say the sweetest things. The code’s the same, loser, come on in.”

With that said, the panel slides up, revealing a speaker and number pad. Brown hasn’t changed her security code in over a year. At this point, Damian thinks she’s probably using Gordon’s monthly break-ins as personal training in locating the various audio bugs and video recording devices that are inevitably left behind.

Brown is sitting on her ugly plaid couch she refuses to dispose of, her feet propped up on the coffee table as she watches some program that, by the sound of it, is mind-numbingly boring. He walks over and yes, he was right: HGTV.

“I assume you did a sweep recently if you are watching this trash.”

“Duh,” Brown snorts. “Barbs would cut my power if she saw me watching Desert Flippers.” 

“She would be right to,” Damian says distastefully, watching the man expound upon the necessity of a swimming pool in Las Vegas. Such nonsense. They would not last five minutes in a real desert.

Brown rolls her eyes. “What can I do for you, little B?” she asks, gesturing for him to take a seat as she lowers the television volume. 

He does so, sitting stiffly so that his back doesn’t touch the couch. Knowing Brown’s hunting grounds for cheap furniture, it probably needs serious decontamination. “I was hoping to...elicit your assistance on a particular matter.”

Brown frowns, sitting up and putting her feet down on the floor as she leans forward. “What particular matter? You hate asking for help and you never ask it from me. Is everything okay?”

Damian grits his teeth. “I…”

Brown looks at him with worried eyes when he doesn’t continue. “You’re kinda freaking me out here, Damian. What’s going on?”

When she reaches out to touch his arm, he jerks away. Ignoring the slight hurt that enters her expression, Damian moves to unzip his jacket, reluctantly lowering the zipper and shrugging the coat off his shoulders with an irritated huff. 

“Oh my _God_!” Brown squeals, a bright grin spreading across her face as she flails in joy. “I thought you burned that! Is this the ‘matter’ you were talking about because I am so down for that. Oh my gosh, and you’re _wearing_ it, this is the best day ever, I’m having all the feels.”

Damian scowls down and takes in the stupid, idiotic, _embarrassing_ shirt he forced himself to put on when he woke up this morning, wistfully wishing he _had_ burned it instead of throwing it in the trash one evening. It would have been large when he received it, but as a teenager it is uncomfortably tight in his shoulders.

It’s a black T-shirt with the Bat symbol outlined in yellow, which in itself is not offensive and could have been borne, if grudgingly. However, what he could not abide was the text just below the symbol. Not only was the font used comic sans, which was alone grounds for total annihilation, it had said ‘Robin: 4th chapter of the trilogy.’ At ten years old, such a statement had been an unbearable affront to his dignity and what he viewed as his rightful place in the Wayne family hierarchy. Brown had been grinning as she watched him open it, a grin that quickly turned to annoyance when he stated exactly what he thought of her gift. 

Years later, he understands that she had given him the gift in good faith. For Brown, it was an acknowledgement of his new place in the family, a gesture of acceptance sprinkled with her trademark blend of sarcastic humor. While Father had made the decision to let Damian be Robin, Brown had handed him the title with a graciousness he only identified in retrospect - after all, Robin had been her identity for years. She had resorted to the Spoiler identity until Gordon had decided the Batgirl legacy shouldn’t end with her.

Brown is asking, “Where did you even find it?” and Damian sighs in displeasure.

“I found it at Drake’s shop.”

Brown gapes at him for a moment before her mouth clicks shut. “I’m sorry,” she says carefully. “Traveler’s Corner, Drake’s shop? Timothy Drake, sketchy mofo, _way_ too perceptive? _That_ Drake?”

“Yes, Brown, _that_ Drake,” he answers, frowning at her with exasperation he doesn’t even attempt to conceal. “I found the store first. Didn’t you read the briefing?”

“Yeah, but you didn’t say you _bought_ anything. Which would seem like relevant information to have when we’re trying to figure out what’s up with the guy who runs the place.”

He frowns. It is unlike Brown to be so concerned with insignificant details - Father has scolded her about her tendency to leave information out of reports a great many times. “Grayson also visited the store and made a purchase, the nature of which he did not disclose to the rest of us, as did Todd and Gordon. If you had visited the shop, I doubt you would share what you purchased either.”

Brown fidgets and her eyes drift slightly up to the left and, ugh, “You went there without telling anyone, didn’t you?” He scowls, crossing his arms. “And you were giving _me_ grief.”

“I was going to tell people!” She protests.

“Were you,” Damian states flatly. “When exactly were you going to do that?”

“...Eventually,” she mutters. She falls back against the couch with a huff, crossing her arms, her face screwed into a very unattractive pout. “Everyone else got to meet him in their right mind, I don’t see why I shouldn’t get to.”

Personally, Damian agrees with her. After eating dinner with Drake and suffering through stilted and uncomfortable conversation, Damian has even less room to talk regarding possible-enemy engagement. The sign of his greater skill is evident though in the fact that he has not been caught. He opens his mouth to make a scathing comment to that effect and then stops.

“- _curt, rude, and likely to struggle filling his father’s footsteps due to his lack of charisma or genuine compassion…_ ”

He’s almost forgotten the reason why he came here in the first place. It’s so easy for him to become distracted, to fall back into old habits. He rubs his fingertips over the letters on his shirt to remind himself.

“Stephanie,” he says, and Brown stares at him in shock, probably not realizing her jaw has dropped slightly in a very unattractive manner. It’s the first time he’s ever called her by her given name and, if he’s honest, he hates it. It makes him uncomfortable. But at this time, it’s necessary. He forces his mouth to open and asks, “Do you think I will be a good heir to my father?”

Brown’s eyes widen and she looks around, exuding awkwardness. “Uh? What does that have to do with anything?”

“Brown - Stephanie. Just answer my question.” Out of all his father’s foster children, Brown has always been the most truthful, even sometimes at her own expense. It means conversations with her can be either incredibly useful or incredibly uncomfortable depending on what the other participant wishes to hear.

“Sure, you’ll be great!” When he gives her a flat look, her forced enthusiasm deflates. She rubs her hands against her thighs before heaving a huge sigh. “I don’t know, Damian. You’re still pretty young, you know, and there’s a lot of stuff you still need to learn, just like any teenager. But if you had to do it, right now?” 

Her eyes meet his and her gaze is steady and slightly apologetic when she says, “No. I don’t think so.”

There are many words that hover behind his teeth.

He wants to say ‘I was raised to be a warrior king, to lead armies and conquer nations, leaving behind a trail of blood that would water the earth and make it reborn anew from the ashes. I was created so that the world should tremble at my feet and beg for mercy that would not come.’

He wants to say ‘I learned twenty ways to kill a person before I was five years of age and countless others after. My mother’s requirement before I met my father was to kill and kill and _kill_ for one entire year so that I would be worthy of his mantle, never telling me that the people I killed were pieces of myself I would never recover.’ 

He wants to say ‘You think I am sociopathic and incapable of empathy, but what do you expect from a child raised in captivity under the guidance of a woman obsessed with a vigilante and a man who, in his desire to live forever, went insane hundreds of years ago? Love was a four letter word, one which I was forbidden to learn.’

He wants to say many, many things.

But what he says is, “You’re right.”

He doesn’t know what he looks like in that moment, but Brown reaches out and softly puts her hand on his. 

Damian doesn’t move until the end of the show.

~~

Tim leaves Drake Industries earlier than Aunt B wants on his next Saturday visit. He thinks that she overestimates his usefulness to the project, but thankfully there really have been promising changes in the targeting matrix. Tim personally feels that most of the progress is due to Tiffany’s efforts - there’s never been a time when he came that she hasn’t been plugging away at her computer, coding and decoding the nanites with endless patience until they start doing what they need to. 

The next few days are slow at the shop and Tim resorts to reading Russian novels. He’s been holding off on developing the film from his attempted mugging run and unfortunately seems to have developed a psychological block when it comes to making hot cocoa in case it spontaneously summons vigilantes from the woodwork. However, once you’ve started _Anna Karenina_ for the second time, steps need to be taken.

The next night he bundles up in the heaviest winter wear he owns and carefully makes his way up to the roof, balancing cups and a pot of hot chocolate in one hand and carrying a blanket and _Doctor Zhivago_ in the other. He spreads it on the roof and sits, carefully placing the pot at his feet. Hopefully the blanket will give him a little insulation - he has no idea how long he’ll wait. 

Nikolai and Ivan have just started discussing philosophy when Tim hears a sharp hissing sound and looks up just in time to see Nightwing and Red Hood land on the roof, Red Hood landing with a solid thud as opposed to Nightwing’s soundless descent. 

“Drake!” Nightwing says with a grin, “It almost looks like you were expecting us!”

Tim rolls his eyes and nudges the pot of hot chocolate with his foot. “If you want some of this you better get it before it gets cold. I’m not going to go and make anymore.”

Nightwing pouts and the curve of his lips is all Dick Grayson. “Rude.”

“Rude is not introducing your friend,” Tim says, gesturing to Red Hood. 

“My mistake,” Dick says cheerfully. “Red Hood, Tim Drake. Tim Drake, Red Hood. I believe you’ve already met, right?”

Tim nods. “Pleasure to see you again, Mr. Hood.” 

Hood doesn’t acknowledge the greeting except to turn his head to Nightwing as he speaks, ignoring Tim completely. 

“Hood,” Nightwing says reproachfully. The glare is clear even through the white mesh hiding his eyes, and Tim suddenly feels nervous for reasons he can’t explain. “You know why you’re here.”

A scoff is Hood’s only response and Dick straightens, the laughing carnival clown replaced by a tiger. “Well, far be it from me to get in your way,” he says smoothly. “Clearly I would inhibit conversation, God forbid, so I’ll just leave you to get reacquainted with your friend, shall I?”

Tim’s eyes widen.

“Nightwing - ” Red Hood growls, the sound oddly distorted through his helmet.

“Have fun you two!” Dick laughs, pulling his grapple gun from who knows where. Red Hood barely takes a step before Dick flies off the roof. Tim goes to stand and freezes, staring down the barrel of a gun that had seemed much smaller when it was tucked away in Hood’s belt. Hood is still looking after Nightwing, as if pulling the gun was just an afterthought.

“Don’t. Move.” 

Tim does not move. He does, however, say, “I was really hoping this would be a quick and easy meeting.”

“I can make it quick and easy,” Hood responds with terrifying geniality, turning around. 

Tim settles back onto the blanket, keeping a wary eye on the gun as he slowly reaches out to pick up his book. “Probably not the kind of quick and easy I was thinking of.”

“Probably not,” Hood agrees. Then he pauses, helmet tilting slightly and Tim realizes he is trying to get a look at the book’s cover. He tilts it obligingly. 

“ _Doctor Zhivago_ ,” Hood says with a odd tone to his voice.

Tim nods. 

Hood stands, tense, gun still pointing at Tim, and then with a sudden fluidness, holsters his weapon and reaches up, pressing what must be some sort of catch to unlatch his helmet. As he pulls it off, Hood runs a hand through his hair, the shock of white clear in the ambient light.

The red domino mask underneath - while redundant in Tim’s mind - conceals a good part of Hood’s face, but the white forelock alone tells Tim that this is the same man that accompanied Barbara Gordon to Traveler’s Corner. 

Hood doesn’t sit down, but he does come closer. He points at the pot of hot chocolate that Tim had almost forgotten about. “I was told there’d be refreshments.”

“Uh, right.” Tim grabs one of the cups and pours, faintly relieved to still see a bit a steam rising into the air. It doesn’t seem like Hood wants to shoot him anymore but there is no point in tempting fate with a cold beverage. He pours himself a cup while he’s at it. He goes to hand the glass over, then stops, thinks better of it, and leans forward as far as he can to place the cup on the ground. Hood’s mouth twitches, but he bends down to pick it up, turning to the north to look out over the nearby buildings. Tim counts it as a win. 

They sit in awkward silence for a while, sipping hot cocoa, and Tim doesn’t even try to pretend that he’s not curious, blatantly studying Hood’s outfit and visible features. Something about Hood’s face, the way his mouth twitches and moves is vaguely familiar to Tim, but he can’t place it. 

Eventually he clears his throat. “So you work with Nightwing?”

Hood grunts, taking another sip of hot chocolate. 

“Thanks for walking me home that night,” Tim adds. Hood pauses, his cup motionless. 

“I didn’t walk you home,” he says. Without the helmet on, his voice grates against Tim’s ears with its rasp, but rather than being abrasive it’s almost soothing, like the feeling of sand rubbing against your feet. 

Tim raises an eyebrow. “I don’t know what else you would call it.”

“Following.” Hood turns, facing Tim head on. “Bit too comfortable with that though, weren’t you?” His voice is silky smooth the way the blade of a knife is, a promise of danger lurking if not handled properly.

Rather than answering the implied question, Tim picks up the book he had put down earlier, holding it up with the cover facing Hood. 

“Have you read it?”

“...What?”

“ _Doctor Zhivago_.” He offers it to the vigilante. “You were looking at it earlier.” 

Despite the fact that Tim can’t see through the white material that covers the domino mask’s eye holes, he feel the skepticism and suspicion radiating from Hood. However, after a moment, he leans forward and sets his cup down on the roof as he takes the book. Tim notices that he’s careful not to let their fingers touch, even though both of their hands are covered by their gloves.

Hood opens it to the page that Tim has marked and scoffs, looking pointedly at him as he flips up the dogear. “Philistine.”

“I left my bookmark downstairs,” Tim says defensively. 

Hood hums dubiously. He flips to a page quickly, as if he knows exactly what he’s looking for. 

Then he states dryly, “‘I hate everything you say, but not enough to kill you for it.’”

For a second Tim feels a shiver of panic makes its way down his spine before the words sink in and tickle his memory. “Yuri to Pasha, right? About his poetry.”

Hood tilts his head appraisingly. “You’ve read it before.”

Tim nods. “One of my favorites, though I’m not usually a fan of Russian novels - a little too pessimistic most of the time. Or too dramatic.”

“ _Anna Karenina_ ,” Hood says knowingly and Tim groans as he squeezes his eyes shut. 

“I hate that book,” he says, throwing his hands up and ignoring the way Hood’s fingers twitch toward his gun. “Just a bunch of people making _stupid_ decisions because they’re caught up in their egos or societal expectations that they decide not to follow anyway and then they get all angry and upset that things aren’t going their way. I just - ugh.” Hood probably doesn’t care a thing in the world about Tim’s feelings about _Anna Karenina_ , but he doesn’t have many people to discuss them with so he might as well take advantage. 

He doesn’t expect a response so he’s surprised when Hood responds, “They make stupid decisions _because_ they’re bound by the societal norms of their time. In doing what society expects, they’re damning themselves to a life half-lived and then when they try to escape from the situation they ended up in, basically under societal duress, they can’t handle the ostracization.” His mouth twists in disgust and he adds, “Plus, the men have all this freedom that women aren’t allowed with personal relationships. The novel is a commentary on societal double standards.”

Ignoring the revelation that Hood is apparently a proud feminist, Tim really can’t let that literary interpretation stand. “I get that, but there’s a lack of care for other people’s feelings - Anna basically abandons her kid to go off with the Count because _love_ and _freedom_. She becomes completely consumed by him and then when she can’t handle him maybe pulling away, she starts doing drugs and eventually jumps in front of a train!” Tim’s always thought that was a tragedy, but one that was almost self-inflicted, one that took root at the very beginning of the story when Anna decided that romantic love meant more than familial love. Especially since other characters show it’s possible to balance the two. “In reality, Kitty and Konstanin are the only redeeming people in the story because they are the only ones that look at their own feelings and the influence society has on them and _change_.”

Hood starts to speaks, but abruptly shuts his mouth, absently shutting the book as he looks off into the distance. Eventually, he taps the cover lightly.

“I’m going to tell you something,” he says bluntly. “It’s a clue to a riddle I haven’t solved yet.” Then he lobs _Doctor Zhivago_ to Tim, who fumbles a bit as he catches it. 

“Uh,” Tim intelligently responds. 

“‘The division in him was a sorrow and a torment,” Hood says slowly, as if savoring the taste of the words as they leave his lips, “and he became accustomed to it only as one gets used to an unhealed and frequently reopened wound.’”

Tim is quiet. There’s something fragile in this moment, in the question that Hood hasn’t spoken. He opens the book. He doesn’t have to search for the page; he’s read the passage enough to know exactly where to find it. A shaky breath escapes him when he arrives at the section and he steels himself before he starts to read.

“‘You in others - this is your soul,” he says softly. “‘This is what you are. This is what your consciousness has breathed and lived on and enjoyed throughout your life - your soul, your immortality, your life in others. And what now? You have always been in others and you will remain in others. ’” He pauses, but Hood doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move. “I think this passage is the most true. This is what life really is, past the pain and the hurt - an accumulation of other people in us and ourselves in other people, the choices we make about what we give to those we touch as we go about living in this world. To those we love and who love us in turn.”

When Tim had left Gotham, it had been like finally breaking free of chains that had been weighing him down for years without his realizing it. Chains of expectation, chains of tragedy, chains that he felt society had wrapped him in after his parents died. It had taken him years to realize that the only chains were ones of his own making.

Losing people breaks something in you that doesn’t ever heal quite right he’s found. But often you don’t mourn what was, but rather what could have been, or in Tim’s case, what should have been. You mourn the you that could have blossomed into being with the presence of the others who are gone, and each reminder of a possible future left undiscovered cuts you again and again, the small kind of cuts that burn. However his parents, despite their failings, left behind part of themselves in him, in Aunt B, in their continuing work at DI, parts that make a difference.

Being wounded, being broken? It hurts. The real question Tim has found though, is what pieces of yourself do you choose to leave behind? As he looks on Hood’s sober face, he wonders if the vigilante even feels there are pieces worth leaving behind.

Hood doesn’t pull his gun, but he doesn’t agree either. He simply stands and looks out into the smog that blankets Gotham almost always, his body still like a statue. 

“Thanks for the hot chocolate,” Hood finally says. Then, like an insane person, he walks over the to ledge and steps calmly off the roof, dropping like a stone. 

“ _Hood_?” Tim chokes out, scrambling to his feet and running to the edge where the man had disappeared. Nothing. “You’re the worst, Hood!” Tim yells down into the street and hears no sound but his own voice echoing back at him.

~~

_“Joyce, I wish you would answer your phone more often. I guess you’ve at least set up your voicemail, so baby steps for the win! The doctors have said that you’ll probably be able to move out of the ICU in a couple of days, after they make sure the infection in your lungs and right leg is all cleared up. Only you would go for two infections instead of one._

_…_

_Honestly though, I wish I was there with you. I’m coming home soon though - the feeling came right after the rain stopped, right after I got the phone call. So don’t worry, I’ll be there soon. Don’t do anything too crazy until I get there, alright?_

_I love you. Talk to you soon."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am posting this before midnight my time so I'm going to count this as a win! 
> 
> To be honest, this is not my favorite chapter but I don't really know what to do with it anymore and since I've just been staring at it for this week, I think I might as well post it. There are parts of it that are really close to my own experience with loss so I hope at least those bits ring true. For any of you that have experienced loss or the feeling of brokenness, just know that you are not alone.
> 
> On a lighter note, I hope that your Decembers haven't been _too_ crazy. (My family is coming in town and, yikes, I certainly don't know where we're gonna put'em) ALSO, I POSTED ANOTHER SIDE STORY! So please go have a look at  the ability to cope gracefully  for some Alfred time!
> 
> As always, thanks for all your kudos and comments! Y'all are the best (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ♡


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An interlude.

_“Hey B, it’s Zatanna. Got some information for you about your guy - had to get in touch with a contact in Chicago, but he’s pretty reliable when he’s not setting things on fire - and...I don’t think you need to worry as much as you thought._

_His title, if you want to call it such, is the Facilitator…”_

~~

“Hey, Barb.”

“Hey yourself, Boy Wonder. What can I do for you this lovely evening?”

“Lovely? It’s pouring rain.”

A laugh. “I’m aware.”

“Of course you are.” Sheepish. “I was wondering if you wanted to go grab a bite to eat. I checked with Alfred and he said he’d be glad to cover the comms.”

“Sure, I haven’t gone out in - wow, probably two months. What place were you thinking?”

“Well...I was thinking maybe Jasper’s.”

“Oh.” A pause. “I haven’t been there since...”

“Yeah. Is...that alright?” 

“...You know what? Yeah. I’d love to go to Jasper’s.”

A shaky breath. “Alright then, I’ll pull around the car to the manor entrance.”

“Perfect, I’ll meet you there in, uh, fifteen minutes or so.”

“Right.” Awkward silence. “Cool.”

A laugh. “Cool.”

A pause. Soft. “Thanks, Barb.”

“No thanks needed. Let’s just have a good time this time around.”

~~

_“Traveler’s Corner...no one is quite sure exactly what it is, but the earliest records seem to say something like it was around during the Safavid empire and I imagine it’s probably much older. In fact, the records are so sparse that I’m honestly surprised anyone still knew they existed. Whatever it is, I can say this with a modicum of confidence: it’s not malicious…”_

~~

“Todd.”

Mocking. “Hell spawn.”

“Tch. I have been sent by Brown to request your presence at her apartment at 0800 this Friday. You are instructed to bring, I quote, “that cheese dip you make, you know, the one with the tomatoes and meat stuff,” end quote.”

A pause. “I’m not gonna lie, the amount of disdain you managed to pack into that was very impressive.”

“Appreciated” Dry. “Shall I inform her you won’t be joining us?”

“Us?”

“Did I stutter, Todd?”

“Well, well, is the demon child finally learning to socialize? Daddy will be _so_ proud when he hears the news.”

Dismissive. “I will let Brown know that you will not be attending then.”

“Hey now, I never said _that_ did I? Tell her...tell her I’ll be there with bells and whistles on.”

Disgruntled. “Bells and whistles were not requested, only cheese dip.”

“And another thing! You tell her it’s called queso or she ain’t getting none, got it?”

“...I am not looking forward to this.”

A scoff. “Why are you even going? You’d rather jump off the clocktower without a grappling gun than hang out with Brown, or anyone else for that matter.”

A pause. “I am...trying something new.”

“Well, that sounds sufficiently ominous. On that note, I’m gonna go do some villain cleanup that’s actually productive, unlike a certain itty-bitty birdie.”

“Tch. Have...fun, I guess.”

Silence. “Wow, you really are trying something new. Please never say that again.”

“Agreed.”

~~

_“The very few records my source found called it ‘خانه خاطرات’ - a loose translation would be ‘house of memories.’ I’m not exactly sure what that means, and although my source seemed to have an idea, he was pretty cagey about the whole thing. I got the impression he’d run across something like it before and trust me, B, this guy is solid. If he’s not saying something, it’s not something that’s meant to be said, but if something is bad news, he’s also the first one to dole out some major property damage…”_

~~

“Alfred?”

“Yes, Miss Stephanie.”

“I’ve _told_ you, just call me Stephanie!”

Amused. “As you say, Miss Stephanie.”

A huff. “You’re the worst, Alfred.”

“I appreciate the criticism, Miss Stephanie. I will endeavor to improve in the future.”

A laugh. Silence.

“Was there something in particular you wanted to discuss, Miss Stephanie? It’s no bother if not, but I have noticed you’ve been a bit pensive lately. Is there something on your mind?”

“I…” A sigh. “Yeah. Yeah, I just...you were trained as a medic, right? When you were in the military? Or I guess I just assumed you were since you do a lot of the patching up when one of us comes back injured.”

“I received basic field medic training when I joined up, yes, though that wasn’t my primary function. In all honesty, Dr. Thompkins was the one who taught me most of what is done in the Batcave - following one too many late night phone calls to come and fix Master Bruce up after patrol or stings gone sideways.”

“Really? I always thought she hated all this.”

“Oh, she does. There have been more than a few times when I thought...well, that we might have pushed her past the limit of what she could accept. After Master Jason…”

“Yeah, B wasn’t exactly in a good place.”

Dry. “An understatement. You were in many ways his saving grace.”

“...I never really thought of it like that.”

Gentle. “Never underestimate the importance of your goodness, Miss Stephanie.”

“T-thank you, Alfred.” A sniffle. A cough. “Um, I was hoping that you might be able to start giving me some training on the medical side of things, you know, just so I can be more prepared to help out if one of the boys comes in with something more serious than a twisted ankle or gashed arm. I know it might seem a bit silly with you already here, but - ”

“Miss Stephanie, I would love to have some help keeping those silly young men from following apart - Lord knows, they’ve only ever learned the bare minimum.”

“Thanks, Alfred. You’re the best, you know that?”

“I have been told that before, yes.”

~~

_“The thing is, Traveler’s Corner, whatever it may be in magical or metaphysical terms, doesn’t stay in one place - it’s always moving around, jumping from city to city. Times when it stayed for a while account for most records, but there’s not telling how long it’ll hang around._

_I’d stop by myself but I kind of got the impression that you want to handle this yourself. It’s up to you what you want to do.”_

~~

“Welcome to - oh. Hello. I didn’t think I’d see you again.”

“Yes, well, I was quite rude running out of here like that last time, wasn’t I? After all you had done to try and help me.”

“It was no problem, it looked like that call was really important. Was everything okay?”

“Oh, for a given value, I suppose so.”

“Oh. Well, that’s good.”

“...I have to say, you look awfully familiar. I didn’t really notice it last time, but I could have sworn I’ve met you before somewhere.”

A laugh. “Yeah, it has been a while hasn’t it. Should I give you a couple of guesses, just to make it fun.”

“Ah yes, there it is. I would recognize that laugh anywhere. Your mother was a lovely woman, an absolute joy to barter with across the business table.”

“Thank you, Mr. Wayne, I appreciate it.”

“No thanks needed, Mr. Drake.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas! Here's a little Christmas present before the next update. All of you who read, kudo, or comment are awesome and I hope that each of you finds something magical this holiday season to remind you of the best moments, the greatest joys, and the strongest loves in your life. May we each have a Traveler's Corner to remind us of who we are. ♡


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim doesn't know what Bruce Wayne could possibly need from him. 
> 
> Things aren't always obvious, Tim, even to you.

_“Tim dear, I think you forgot your scarf the last time you visited. I’m sure you have some others, but it’s so cold out there, make sure you bundle up alright? I can’t wait to see you tomorrow - I have your gift and you better pretend to like it, mister, even if you think it’s silly. Merry almost-Christmas Eve!”_

~~

Bruce Wayne comes back.

Tim is honestly surprised the first time it happens. There’s no doubt he knew who Tim was, if not before he came to Traveler’s Corner, then very soon afterward - and even knowing that, Tim was genuinely touched when Mr. Wayne said Tim reminded him of his mother. He’s still never confirmed that Batman was the one to find their bodies, but remembering her as the woman she was before the end is a kindness he appreciates. 

Mr. Wayne it seems just wants to talk. He asks questions and while he starts off with the same vapid air that he maintained the first time he found the shop, hints of Batman sneak through with greater regularity, in the curve of his smile, the solidity in his stance. Tim can’t tell if it’s on purpose, but he can’t imagine Mr. Wayne doing anything without fully weighing the drawbacks and benefits to the action. What he gains by not being an airhead must be more important than keeping his persona fully intact. To be fair, most people see what they expect to see.

He says he’s trying to find gifts for his kids. Christmas is coming up soon and there’s such a wide variety of items here, isn’t there, do you have anything you’d recommend? Playing along, Tim asks about his children and gets wildly inaccurate representations of Dick and Damian that would have him assuming they belonged in Arkham if he hadn’t gauged their personalities in person already.

 

(“ - and then he threw it out into the pond out back. He was afraid that it wouldn’t work but I always had confidence in him, he’s a very intelligent young man you know.

“It certainly sounds like it.”

“Plus, it might be quite useful later in life. You never know when you’ll need underwater fireworks.”)

 

(“ - he still likes to dress up sometimes, even though he’s a bit old for it now.”

“Dress up?”

“Oh yes, have you ever heard of the Annual Taxidermy Costume Contest in Wichita? They incorporate real taxidermied animals!”)

 

So Batman is a troll. Tim would say he’s surprised, but the kids must have gotten it from somewhere. He leaves with nothing and Tim wonders if that’s that.

But Mr. Wayne comes back again. He’s upgraded to Bruce in Tim’s mind at that point, though it is still strange after having known him as Mr. Wayne since childhood, not counting the whole Batman thing. This time, Bruce says, he’s still going to try to find something for his kids, but you know, he also needs something for his butler, it wouldn’t do to forget to find a present for his most loyal and long-serving employee, now would it?

Given the nonsense that Alfred Pennyworth likely puts up with on a daily basis, Tim fervently agrees that yes, he absolutely deserves a gift and probably a raise, too.

Rather than tell tall tales about his boys this time, he asks questions about Tim, about what he’s been up to since his parents’ passing, where he’s been, what he’s been doing. He doesn’t cross the line, no more than anyone else would, but he walks it very carefully. 

 

(“If you don’t mind me asking, what made you decide to leave Gotham? I know things must have been difficult after your parents…passed.”

“It wasn’t really that. I inherited the shop when I was seventeen and it just…seemed time to move on. You did the same thing, right?”

“Hmm?”

“I mean, you traveled the world when you got to college, or around that age, right? I think I remember someone saying that at one of the parties when I was younger.”

“I suppose I did do a good amount of traveling, though I certainly wasn’t running a business while I was doing it. As you can imagine, you generally can’t up and carry a business with you when you go backpacking in Nepal.”

“You can’t? Really? Huh.”)

 

(“Do you like working in a shop like this though? It is a bit of a step down from Drake Industries, don’t you think?

“…Have you been talking with Dr. Byeon?”

“The head of DI? Not recently, I believe, though normally Lucius handles those sort of things, why?”

“Oh, nothing. You just sounded a lot like her for a second.”

“Well, I’ll take that as a compliment then, I hear she’s an extraordinary woman.”

“ _Extraordinarily annoying_.”

“What was that?”

“Have you looked at this toy thing?”)

 

It’s nothing too invasive, but it is odd. Mostly it’s odd because it _not_ that invasive. There’s no way Batman, in all his Batman-y personality, has decided he just wants to visit with a relative stranger, regardless of meetings during Tim’s childhood. Still, he can’t think of a reason not to answer. They’re playing word games and trying to catch each other off guard and make the other give something away - even if Bruce isn’t aware that they’re both playing.

It’s kind of fun to be honest.

When Bruce returns for the third time in a week, Tim pushes down the uneasy feeling that creeps through his veins. 

He’s not exactly _ignoring_ his conversation with Joyce, but… there’s an unsettledness to the whole thing. It’s so easy to see what she was talking about when applied to him and her, but Bruce Wayne? It doesn’t fit. 

Bruce Wayne is older, true, but he has an entire team of Batkids that he trained from the ground up. He’s dealt with tragedy and the death of his loved ones, and though that’s something that will never fully heal, from all accounts Bruce has done his best to move forward if not move on. Heck, by the time Tim left Gotham, Bruce had acquired a new son, one with a personality that needed a lot of work but who clearly looked up to his father desperately. 

Tim had needed Joyce and it was obvious why – with absentee parents, no friends, and a habit of sneaking into the dark holes of Gotham to take photographs of vigilantes beating up criminals, Tim had been the poster child for spiraling poor decisions. Joyce had given him someone to rely on, to trust in a time when trust might as well have been a foreign word. Tim’s needs had been written blatantly across his forehead for all intents and purposes. 

Bruce Wayne was a billionaire vigilante with a great makeshift family who also managed to do charity work and grow one of the most successful corporations in the United States, if not the world.

What could Bruce Wayne possibly need with Tim Drake?

So when Bruce comes in for the third time, Tim doesn’t bother pretending he’s not watching, shutting his book and leaning his head against his hand as he rests his arm on the counter. The fiction of looking for Christmas gifts for his kids is barely upheld as Bruce wanders the shelves for a couple minutes before walking over to the counter where Tim sits.

“I have to ask, Timothy - is it alright if I call you Timothy? - where on earth do you get all these things? I swear if Lucius - that’s my COO or CFO, C-something-O at least - saw the organization in this place he’d have a fit. I simply cannot understand why things are where they are.”

Tim laughs. “It’s organized exactly how it’s supposed to be, Mr. Wayne, I promise. It was like this when I inherited the store and likely it’ll be this way after I’m gone.” He looks around fondly. “Its personality shines through like this.”

Bruce grimaces. “Well, I suppose. I don’t know if the décor is to my taste, but it is your shop.”

Right now, Traveler’s Corner is _exactly_ to Bruce’s taste, down to the subtle bat motive Tim noticed that morning on one of the couches. Tim bites back a chuckle.

“Are you almost ready for Christmas?” he asks, glancing down at his empty counter before looking up with a raised eyebrow. “Because if you’re getting presents for your kids, you’re certainly not getting them from me. Time is running out, you know.”

Bruce places a hand over his heart with a wounded expression. “I am doing my best, you know! Have you ever tried to buy presents for a teenage boy and almost-thirty-year old before?”

“Well, I’ve bought things for myself,” Tim responds dryly, “does that count?”

Bruce sniffs dramatically and turns to the side. “No, it doesn’t.”

Tim shrugs. “Maybe if you tell me some of their hobbies or something I can give you suggestions.” Maybe a new grappling gun or a first aid kit stocked with poison antidotes. What for? Well, you never know in Gotham when such things might come in handy.

Bruce probably wouldn’t take those suggestions well.

“I don’t want to – ”

A wail of sirens cut Bruce off and Tim looks out to see a squad of police cars racing by, followed by a fire truck and two ambulances. He reaches for his phone and pulls up his Gotham villain tracking app. Tiffany had told him that two of her classmates had made the app following an attack on campus by the Riddler, when students had kept wandering into the danger zone because there wasn’t an effective way to communicate the villain’s location. The app works a lot like a community stalking system – someone can input a sighting of a villain and other people can mark an affirmative, effectively keeping track of where the villain is and giving a decent idea of how many people are being affected in the area. Personally, Tim feels the creators should be given a Nobel Peace Prize. 

“Looks like Mad Hatter is trying to cause trouble over at the pier.” Tim ignores Bruce as the other man straightens. He scrolls down further on the situation write-up. “He’s got a – oh, wait, someone says that he lost his hat. It’s really windy and it blew off into the water. Sucks for him,” he mutters sarcastically. “He’s already been restrained so that’s good. Apparently there were some police on patrol nearby.”

Tim heaves a sigh, putting his phone down. “Thank goodness.”

“Yes,” Bruce says, mask firmly back in place, “thank goodness.”

“What is it about Gotham that attracts all the crazies?” Tim ponders. “I mean, we get even more than Metropolis and they have Superman. _Superman_. You’d think they’d go for the challenge.”

“In Gotham, we have the Batman and his _group_ ,” Bruce says cuttingly. “I suppose they might be seen as a challenge.”

Tim draws back, a bit shocked by the vehemence in Bruce’s voice. Not only that, but Bruce’s eyes are as hard as stone, not a shred of playfulness to be seen. Whatever this is, it isn’t acting. 

“I…what do you mean?”

Bruce scoffs. “I mean that the damage the villains do is only compounded by what the vigilantes cause when they try to stop them. When people call Batman a hero…” His lips twitch up in a sneer. “I suppose it’s true working under a very limited definition.”

“That’s not a fair representation,” Tim protests gently. “Would you rather he save no one than saving the people he can? Batman does good work,” he hesitates before continuing, “even if it doesn’t always work out exactly the way he might want. Gotham is better for having him here and fighting to make it better.”

“Better?” Bruce laughs hollowly. “Did you know that over the past two decades, the number of enhanced villains that have started their careers in Gotham City has nearly tripled – a higher rate than Metropolis and Central City _combined_. And almost every single one has managed to develop some sort of vendetta against Batman, so they fight to get out of prison or Arkham or wherever so that they can have another round with the Caped _Crusader_ ,” he makes a slashing gesture with his hand, “hell, they practically _advertise_ themselves for the man. If Batman wasn’t here, you can bet that the villain count in Gotham would drop immediately.”

The thing is, Bruce isn’t wrong. 

Tim has never looked into the numbers, but he didn’t need to. Throughout the years he lived in Gotham, he’d noticed that more villains were coming out of the woodwork, most of whom had some sort of enhancement or gimmick that made them far too dangerous for the police to take on. When it came to supervillains, police were either there for perimeter, containment, or cleanup. The only people who had any chance of confronting criminals like Poison Ivy or Scarecrow were people who were enhanced themselves - and since there were no reliable enhanced heroes in Gotham, Gothamites turned to the Bats.

Things wouldn’t be better if Batman was gone though. Tim doesn’t just believe that, he _knows_ it, down deep in his bones. 

“Enhanced villains have increased around the world, not just in Gotham,” Tim argues, “and Batman didn’t even start his own career fighting supervillains. The vast majority of his early activities were focused on gangs, organized crime, and petty criminals, most of whom had a history of violent altercations.” Tim knew better than anyone else because he had been watching it from the shadows. Even in the mid-point of his career, Batman and the Robins had done more work in the slums and danger areas of Gotham than the actual police. “For the average Gothamite, those are the people that they’re afraid of, not the supervillains. It’s like…what are you more likely to be killed by, the flu or a tornado? Batman does his best to vaccinate and then also has to do cleanup when the tornado hits - but he can only do so much.”

Tim has long thought about why Bruce Wayne became Batman and the easy answer comes down to the death of his parents when he was a young boy. But Thomas and Martha Wayne hadn’t been killed by a Bane or a Scarecrow, they’d been shot in a mugging down a back alley after seeing a movie with their son. While that may have been a tornado in little Bruce’s world, it was ultimately the symptom of a much deeper sickness that ran through Gotham’s streets, one that led to Bruce’s calling as Batman.

“It’s not Batman’s fault when a tornado touches down,” Tim says quietly, looking Bruce calmly in the eyes.

Bruce doesn’t dignify that with a response, instead looking out the window, his arms crossed. Eventually, Bruce speaks again, but softer this time.

“He brought kids into it.”

Tim doesn’t say anything. 

“Batman,” Bruce says with a hint of disgust in his voice, “took children and made them into weapons. How old was Robin when he started, do you think?” He purses his lips, eyes looking bleakly out at nothing. “How _young_?”

Tim opens his mouth and finds that he can’t think of anything to say. Robin _was_ young – each and every one of them. Dick was ten or so and Jason a bit older. Damian was probably closer to Dick’s age when he started, though with his mysterious background, he might have started training long before then. Stephanie Brown was probably the oldest of the Robins when she started and even she was just a teenager. Barbara must have been around the same age when she started as Batgirl, too. 

Jason had _died_. 

But at the same time, Tim remembers the stories that had come out when Jason Todd was adopted as Bruce Wayne’s ward, remembers that the boy had come from Crime Alley and had been living in what the papers described as ‘squalor.’ Worse, Tim remembers creeping through those same streets with his camera clutched tight to his stomach under his oversized sweatshirt, veering away from the drugged out teenagers slumped against walls and adults who lurked in dark corners with dangerous bags in their pockets.

When he was thirteen and looked like he was ten, a man had grabbed him by the arm and tried to drag him off, and only quick thinking and a kick to the balls had saved him. A few weeks later, the same man had offered ten bucks to a girl in a short yellow dress with empty eyes and dirt-covered knees and Tim had watched as she took his hand and walked with him into the dark.

Suddenly, Tim is angry. He’s angry because Gotham isn’t safe, has never been safe, no matter where you are or what precautions you take. He’s pissed off that children have died or been left without parents and that little boys grew with a desire to be a vigilante instead of an astronaut or any one of the million things that kids are supposed to want to be. But most of all, he’s angry that Bruce can’t see the strength and courage and _care_ that he’s somehow managed to instill in his kids, so much so that even when they could live a life of luxury and carelessness, they _choose_ to continue walking out into the darkness with a smile in the hope that they can make a difference to at least one person who needs their help. Too many kids never had a chance to choose at all.

“I’ll have you know they’re all pretty great, no matter their age,” he says forcefully. “It’s not ideal and not good, but maybe it’s better that they _can_ fight.”

“And how would you know? _Hang out_ very often?” Bruce asks, a mocking tone coloring the tired words.

Tim, stressed and tired and _pissed off_ says, “As a matter of fact, yes,” before he can think.

Shit.

Tim’s mouth quickly shuts, but not before Bruce freezes in place, tension suddenly radiating from his still form. He turns back to the counter.

“ _You_ spend time with Robin?” he says carefully, his eyes fixed on Tim’s face.

There’s nothing for it. “I’ve...run into him before,” he finally admits, “I got into trouble and they helped me out.”

“They?” If Bruce’s tone before was ice, it’s positively _glacial_ now.

“Robin works in a team,” Tim covers. “Makes sense, having backup considering what they deal with.”

Bruce stares at him. Then he says, his voice like silk, “I wonder what makes you so special. They don’t talk to many people I hear. In fact, it’s very strange given their work that they would stick around at all.”

The thing is, Tim is tired. There’s clearly some issue that Bruce needs to work through regarding his kids because Tim is very obviously talking to Batman right now, not Wayne, and any person in their right mind would question Bruce Wayne having this strong an opinion on anything, especially Robin chatting with a shopkeeper no matter who the shopkeeper may be. And Tim? Tim doesn’t want to deal with Bruce or his neuroses anymore, not now, not after bringing up emotions about Gotham he’d long since thought buried.

He just wants Bruce Wayne to _go away_.

Then a warm sensation settles over him, like when Joyce gives him a hug or Aunt B ruffles his hair. He looks at Bruce and he knows exactly what to say.

“You have sons, Mr. Wayne.” He ignores the way Bruce shifts into a solid stance, a stance prepared for violence. “I’m sure there are others that you’ve...mentored through your life. I can only hope that you’ve prepared them as well as Batman has prepared his protégés - to face the future with the knowledge that their choices make things better for others, even if it means you must suffer when you fall short of what you hope to accomplish.” Tim’s gaze doesn’t waver as he looks Bruce in the eye. “Sadly, when you try so hard to help, the suffering is even more painful when you fail.”

“That sounds almost like a prophecy,” Bruce says lightly with eyes like razors.

Tim doesn’t smile. “I’m not a prophet, Mr. Wayne. I’m just a shopkeeper.”

~~

Bruce doesn’t say goodbye this time. 

~~

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When Tim’s phone rings, he almost doesn’t answer it. It’s been a long day and unfortunately he had two more customers after Bruce left the store, one of whom broke into tears when he found his late wife’s wedding ring that had fallen down the drain mere hours before she died in a drunk driving accident. The last thing he wants to do is answer a phone call.

But.

But there’s only a few people that have his number. And if any of them were in trouble and he didn’t answer, he’d never forgive himself. 

He groans and picks up his phone, looking at the caller ID. _Aunt B_ flashes across his screen. 

Pressing accept, he brings it up to his ear. “Hey, Aunt B.”

“ _-ssible, it’s not ready!_ ” Aunt B’s normally calm voice is tight with tension and a thump sounds, a cry of pain following.

He stops breathing. 

A chilling male voice echoes faintly across the line. “ _That means it’ll be twice as fun to test!_ ” The words are followed by a shrill laugh that sends an icy trickle of fear down his spine. Then another voice comes, louder, as if right by the phone speaker. 

“ _What do you want?_ ” Tiffany’s voice is shaking. 

“ _Oh, sweet cheeks_ ,” the man croons, suddenly louder, “ _the same thing I always want_.” Tim’s fingers convulse and tighten around the phone as Tiffany yells, and continues yelling until a series of dull thuds sound. Then - 

“ _Helloooo, you must be little Timmy_ ,” the Joker croons into his ear. “ _So kind for itty-bitty Tiffany to give you a ring. I was going to invite you to the party anyway, but I guess she was so excited she just couldn’t wait!_ ” 

“What do you want,” Tim grits out, his heart racing.

The Joker bursts into horrible laughter and Tim can see in his mind the grotesque grin that must stretch across his ghoulishly white face. 

“ _Didn’t I say?_ ” he giggles. “ _ **Chaos**. _

_We’re gonna have so._

_much._

_**fun.**_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I apologize for being a day late with this update, but I looked at this chapter yesterday and it was... _awful_ , just really not, I don't know, _right_? So I worked on it today and basically tore apart the entire thing and tried to build it again in a way that was more true to the characters I've been attempting to portray. Hopefully I was somewhat successful. 
> 
> Also, HAPPY NEW YEAR'S EVE, EVERYONE! 
> 
> 2018 has been a bit of a dumpster fire (putting in mildly), but tonight is a chance to at least give ourselves new goals to reach and work toward change, in ourselves and the world. If you feel like sharing, what is your New Year's resolution going to be? I'm planning on getting back into Italian language classes so that I stop losing vocab >_<'
> 
> As always, feel free to leave kudos or comments - I love hearing from you!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim is losing his mind, Bruce is losing _his_ mind, and there's probably a better time for this conversation but that's never stopped us before!

Panic.

Tim scrambles to his computer, pressing the power button with more force than he should. He can’t feel his fingers - why can’t he feel his fingers? Has his computer always been this slow because he should probably look into - 

_Have to find them, where are they, what does he want, what will he do -_

It’s been a long time since he really tried to hack anything, he doesn’t use this computer for much. Maybe it’s like riding a bike - though he only learned how to ride a bike when he was a teenager, after Joyce kept nagging him and making him flustered and annoyed. He’d mostly done it so that she’d have to find something else to poke fun at. Aunt B had actually been so proud when - 

_What could he possibly want with Aunt B, what would he do to her, is she okay issheokay -_

**Focus, Tim.**

He tries to remember how to breathe. You’d think he be good at it, having done it every moment of his life preceding this. 

He’s never tried to hack into DI. He’s never needed to. When he was onsite it didn’t matter and he didn’t actually work there, despite Aunt B’s nagging, so he didn’t bring home any work or set up a VPN. His laptop can do just enough to get through the first level of security (and the fact that he can even do that working from wifi is unacceptable), but he can’t access the security cameras or get a live feed on what programs are being utilized. His laptop doesn’t have a system sophisticated enough to do more than this - he outfitted it with photography in mind, not hacking into corporate servers. It might not even matter. Aunt B and Tiffany often go out for dinner together, they could have been anywhere when the Joker grabbed them. 

He needs more firepower. He needs a way to track the Joker or Aunt B’s phone or _something_. 

He needs - 

His screen flickers and goes black.

 

~~

 

_“Tim honey, I don’t want to worry you but I had a strange voicemail on my phone from Dr. Byeon. She sounded...well, very odd. She was asking for you, which is why I thought you might want to know._

_Tim...is everything alright? I thought you were going to do lunch with her tomorrow and exchange Christmas gifts. Give me a ring back when you get the chance. I love you.”_

 

~~

 

The first time Bruce put on the Batman armor, he felt an overwhelming sense of rightness, of righteousness, knowing that now, finally, he would begin the fight for justice that his parents had started. All the running, all the training, all the moments when he couldn’t get the taste of blood out of his mouth was worth it to walk out into the dark corners of Gotham and make things _better_. Some might think that his proudest moments in the cape are stopping an alien invasion, saving the world from annihilation or something equally grandiose. 

It isn’t.

Bruce’s proudest moment as Batman was the first time he silently stepped into an alley where a woman and her son were cornered by a man with a gun and, _finally_ , stopped tragedy before it happened. 

He can’t pinpoint when it stopped feeling that way. When the thrill of saving lives became a struggle to get out of bed. What was the moment when the burning desire to fight the darkness started to weaken? Maybe it was when he found Jason’s body, burnt and beaten in Ethiopia, or perhaps when he saw how close the monster Talia had created had come to killing Damian. Maybe it was every person that he just couldn’t save piling up and up, a mountain of ghosts pressing down on his shoulders. 

But still, he refuses to stop, even as his bones creak and wounds take longer to heal because what is Bruce Wayne if not Batman? At least when he’s out on the streets of Gotham he can try to do something, even if that something is never enough.

_“…the suffering is even more painful when you fail…”_

He picks up his phone and hits number one on his speed dial, waiting as it rings.

“Master Bruce? Where are you?”

“I’m on my way back to the manor now, Alfred. Where are the kids?”

“I believe they’re all here at the moment for a debriefing on Miss Barbara’s Poison Ivy case. Would you like me to fetch anyone in particular?”

“No, but make sure they stay there. I’ll be home soon.”

 

~~

 

When Bruce walks in the Batcave, Dick is standing on his hands explaining something to a surprisingly engaged Damian and highly skeptical Jason while Stephanie sits in her beanbag chair, sewing an arm back onto a - stuffed Wonder Woman? Where does she find these things? Barbara is nowhere to be found.

“Where’s Barbara?” Bruce asks.

Dick flips back up onto his feet with enviable grace and explains, “She cut off the debrief when something pinged on the computer. She went upstairs a couple of minutes ago, but when I asked what was up she just said that she’d be back in a while.” He shrugs. “She seemed a bit distracted so I thought it best to let her go do whatever needs doing.”

“That’s fine,” Bruce says, looking at them all, his kids halfway in their uniforms, gearing up to go out into the streets of Gotham the night before Christmas Eve. “I’ll talk to her later.” 

Something in his tone must tip Dick off because the teasing smile that had been present as he needled Jason and Damian leeches away, seriousness taking its place. Jason clearly picks up on it, too, crossing his arms and stepping over beside Stephanie, who puts down her Wonder Woman toy with a raised eyebrow. Damian seems to be the only one who doesn’t realize that Bruce isn’t exactly in a good mood because he simply looks at him attentively and says, “What is it, Father?”

He waits for a moment, letting the silence stand before saying, “Timothy Drake.” 

Bruce watches as Damian blanches before schooling his expression. Jason and Stephanie exchange a quick look, unreadable. Dick _winces_. They hold their tongues for a moment, but Bruce has used up all patience on the drive home from Drake’s place of business and he will not. keep. _waiting_.

“Damian,” he says, voice low. The demand is unspoken, but of all his children Damian is the one most like Bruce no matter uncomfortable it makes him. His son knows exactly what he’s asking. 

He sees Damian wrestle with something before he huffs. “It was unplanned, Father. I was simply looking for a birthday present for Grayson and I walked into Drake’s store. At that time, there was no follow-up beyond gifting Grayson a gift card to the shop.” He looks off to the side with his lips pursed. 

Bruce’s anger is usually the type that simmers, but on hearing his son’s statement it flares. “I was speaking of your interaction with him as Robin, but thank you for clarifying that not only did you speak with him _in_ costume, but _also out of it_.” 

Stephanie cuts in, standing up. “It was my fault, Bruce. I ended up on his apartment after Poison Ivy hit me with one of her compounds and Drake found me, brought me into his apartment. Nothing happened though. Robin was just retrieving me since I was under the influence.”

The last Poison Ivy confrontation had been a long time ago, probably a last hurrah before the deep part of winter hit and her plants grew sluggish with the cold, October maybe. Bruce remembers Stephanie had been out of commission with injuries for a while afterward. Nowhere in the write-up had there been the mention of a Good Samaritan, not even a Active Bystander. As far as the report was concerned, Batgirl had collapsed on a rooftop and, when Robin found her, acted highly paranoid and irrational. 

“You doctored a report.”

“It wasn’t doctored - ” Stephanie protests, but cuts off when Bruce raises his hand.

“So that’s two of you then. It’s safe to assume then that everyone here has met with Timothy Drake.” The resounding silence is all the answer he needs. “Report then. Tell me what you learned.” 

They all hear the silent _tell me what you missed_. No matter how experienced they all are, or how much their investigative abilities have grown over the years, not a single one of them could come close to Bruce’s analytical capabilities. Bruce is proud of them, of how much they've grown, but that doesn’t mean he is blind to their shortcomings. In true oldest sibling fashion, Dick tries to intervene.

“Bruce - ”

“Dick. _Report_.” 

Dick scowls, but says tonelessly, “Timothy Drake, son of Jack and Janet Drake, parents deceased. Immediately emancipated after their death when he was fifteen. Highly intelligent, inherited shop Traveler’s Corner at seventeen. Proficient at mixed martial arts, likely to be highly adept at deductive reasoning, extremely fond of photography. No history of violence, general attitude positive. Also, a very dry sense of humor when beating up muggers. That’s the short of it.” There’s the stubborn set to his mouth that Bruce is all too familiar with. “We did our homework, Bruce, we didn’t just poke him with a stick and see if he went boom.”

That little summary is the bare minimum Bruce would expect and it’s completely missed the point, although it’s brought to light some frustrating new data that Dick probably didn’t realize he was giving away. “And what did you learn about Traveler’s Corner?” Bruce says with deceptive evenness. 

Now there’s something interesting. Dick’s eyes flicker over to Jason, so quick Bruce almost misses it. Behind him, Damian glances at Stephanie who clenches the needle still in her hand. And Jason...Jason looks at _Bruce_. 

_“- a loose translation would be ‘house of memories’...”_

Jason rolls his eyes and throws his hands up in exasperation. “It’s fucking magic, alright, let’s just say it. It’s a fucking magic shop.” He frowns. “I mean, a shop that’s magical, whatever. We picked that up pretty quick - or at least, some of us did,” he says, giving Damian a side-eye. 

“Wait,” Stephanie says, frowning, “how did you know it was magic? I didn’t know that.”

Jason crosses his arms and leans back slightly on his heels, one of the few tells he kept from before - 

“It was obvious. I guess you didn’t actually go in the shop though so you have a bit of an excuse.” Stephanie grimaces and Jason does a double take. “Shit, you totally went alone! What the _fuck_ , Steph?”

“It was _fine_ , you were all fine so I knew I’d be fine -”

“Stop saying fine, it is _not_ fine -”

“She told me she went,” Damian offers, “though I informed her it was a poor decision not to have told anyone beforehand.”

“Hey,” Dick interrupts, shooting the others a harsh glare that, impressively, actually makes them shut their mouths for a second. Then he turns to Bruce, his jaw clenching. “Look, it’s all Batman all the time and you know how you are about magic. We figured we would keep an eye out and we did. Drake runs his store, goes jogging, gets groceries, and sometimes visits museums and photography shops. He’s _harmless_.”

Harmless?

Bruce wants to grab Dick and _shake_ him. That is always the mistake people make. Believing that something can’t hurt you, that you are invincible, even in small ways. Thinking that a ten year old boy in a circus costume is helpless when he can put your face in the dirt faster than anyone has a right to, watching a street rat with dismissal until you turn around and realize your car tires have been snatched underneath your nose. Harmless is the teenage girl who discovers your secret and the girl who becomes a vigilante to spoil her own father’s crimes. It’s having one moment of vulnerability and finding a child on your doorstep ten years later. What would his kids say if once upon a time, they were mistaken for being innocent, being powerless. Being harmless.

Everything is harmless until it gets someone killed and you have to bury a child-sized coffin in the family graveyard. 

“Look at you all. You tell me you had it under control, that you kept an eye out? Well, apparently it was a tired eye because you weren’t aware that Stephanie had returned to the store.” Dick grimaces, glancing over at the blonde. “And it’s interesting that you would have any knowledge about his martial arts skill as, according to our reports, you never ran into Drake again after the first time so please, share just how you came by that information.” 

Jason, unlike Stephanie and Damian, doesn’t look confused. Bruce can practically see the pieces clicking together in his mind and Jason doesn’t like the picture those pieces make.

“An invitation, _Dick_?” Jason growls, and Stephanie puts a hand on his shoulder that he shakes off roughly. “ _Don’t_.”

“Grayson?” Damian says, eyes flicking back and forth between the two men as they stand off.

Dick carefully doesn’t reach out a hand though Bruce can see the tension in his arms as he holds himself back. “Jason - ” 

“What is he talking about, Dick?” Stephanie demands. 

“I don’t think now is the time - ”

“What, are we gonna schedule _conversations_ now, is that it?”

“Grayson, what does - ”

“Keep up, demon brat,” Jason snaps, “Dick got a look at Drake in action on patrol.”

“You did the same, _Todd_ ,” Damian hisses, hackles rising. “Or does it not count when you do it? That seems your general hypocrisy.”

“You little - ”

“ _Stop_.”

Bruce feels slightly gratified through the anger when they each halt, turning to face him, shoulders going up at attention. This is a lesson that none of them seem to have learned, despite all the years they’ve been doing vigilante work. He wants to hammer it home. “This is what happens when you think you know better than SOPs. You focused so much on the man that you didn’t look at the entire picture and ignored things that should have been red flags. You had no idea what you were dealing with. Magic isn’t something to play with, not people, not items, and you all displayed a lack of judgment that – ”

“Like you _care_ ,” Jason sneers, his arms crossed defensively in front of himself, and Stephanie says, “Hold on now,” and Damian asks Dick, “You saw Drake fight? What style did he use?” and Dick groans in aggravation and Bruce is just so _angry_ because Jason doesn’t get, has _never_ gotten it – 

“Of course I care, Jason, you’re my _son_!”

 

~~

 

When Alfred opens the door, he’s surprised to find a young man standing there, with what one could call a calm expression on his face except for the hunted look in his eyes.

“Pardon me for intruding,” he says, “but is Mr. Wayne in?”

“I’m afraid not, sir.” Alfred knows that Bruce is down in the cave currently, but when he poked his head in earlier, the entire family had been engaging in some rather spirited conversation that, by the sound of it, was long overdue. He is loathe to interrupt them. 

The man then growls, and Alfred frowns, readying himself for some sort of confrontation. “Fine. Let me rephrase that.” The young man’s eyes flash with something sharp and cold. “I need to speak with Batman. _Now_.”

 

~~

 

His words echo up into the ceiling and everyone abruptly stops talking and turns to look at him, eyes wide. In the silence, the words hover, heavy over their heads and Bruce, suddenly and yet not suddenly at all, is so _tired_.

“You’re my son, Jason,” he says, this time quieter, calmer. “I know that you might not think that way, but it is what it is and you are to me what you are.” He wants to say mine, you’re my own, but Jason doesn’t like the idea of belonging to someone, struggled against settling in at the manor every step of the way, grew worse when he was with the League. “Do I like the way you do things – that you’ve killed people? No, I don’t. But no matter what you’ve done, no matter what has been done _to_ you, I care about you, I – ” 

He doesn’t know what else to say, stopping awkwardly as the words dry up in his mouth. Jason is looking at him like he’s lost his damn mind and Bruce can’t really blame him. 

“That’s a lie,” Jason finally states, shaking his head. Bruce doesn’t think he notices when he takes a step back, as if to distance himself from Bruce. “You think that you can spout a few pretty words and I’m gonna buy what you’re selling?”

Stephanie makes a noise in her throat. “Jay - ”

“No, Steph. He doesn’t get to try his hand at emotional manipulation because he’s pissed off at us for making our own decisions.”

Bruce clenches his jaw. “I’m not angry about that. I’m angry that you – that all of you,” he adds, looking around at the other members of his makeshift family, “thought it was a good idea to investigate Drake without logging anything or without any backup. I don’t even need to ask if you engaged multiple times because – ”

“I told him.”

Three batarangs fly toward the voice before it even finishes and the Bat clan watches as Timothy Drake, somehow standing at the manor entrance to the cave, drops to the ground, calmly getting back to his feet and brushing his hands off on his jeans after a quick check that no more projectiles are flying toward him. Despite his apparent calmness, his hands clasp together tightly, as if he might fly apart the moment he lets them go.

“I know who you are. Who all of you are,” Drake continues, stepping forward and taking a shaky breath, “and I need your help.”

“How did you get down here?” Jason demands lowly, stepping forward threateningly, his hand twitching toward where his gun would be if Bruce didn’t forbid them in his house. The rest of the kids are hesitant, but they too reach for another weapon.

“I let him in.” 

Barbara rolls out of the elevator as the doors finish opening. “And as cathartic as this discussion has been, we’re working on a time limit. The Joker has Dr. Byeon from DI and Tiffany is with her.”

 

~~

 

(The thing is, Barbara Gordon can’t walk anymore, not with her legs, broken things that they are, unable to receive signals like the world’s most ineffective radios. It was horrible and traumatizing and nothing is ever going to make it better.

Barbara accepted it.

Barbara Gordon couldn’t walk so she found a new way to travel.

She built sparking roads made of code in a city made of dark computer systems. CCTV became her eyes and tiny, insignificant bugs flew out into the sky to be her ears. The world was no longer built for her so she built a world for herself. Her new world was full of minds that raced through the servers and wove glowing connections between each other, none noticing the observer that kept tabs on their movements, partially for prevention, partially for practice. She stole their stories and laughed.

Tim Drake’s laptop was a veritable playground with only the most basic security, which Barbara found surprising until she realized that the only thing he used it for was browsing the internet and doing some photo manipulation. While his computer was connected to wifi and therefore a pretty easy exercise, he never connected his phone to it. In fact, his phone might as well have been a flip phone for all the use he made of it. Bluetooth and wifi were both disabled along with any end-user interface so without physical access, she couldn’t get his contacts or anything stored on it that might be of interest. 

Shrugging, Barbara had put in place an alert in case there was an unusual spike in activity on his computer and left it alone, not expecting anything to come of it.

So when the ping came in the middle of her Poison Ivy debrief, she paused and pulled the system up on her personal screen just in time to see Timothy Drake do a basic hack into Drake Industries servers. It was the work of a moment to take over his screen. When the reply to her _Oracle is watching_ message was _Oracle can fuck off_ , her ‘disaster-in-progress’ senses had started tingling. A few more questions had revealed exactly how big the disaster was going to be and just how desperate Drake was.

So instead of having it out with her makeshift family down in the Batcave with typical Bat-sanctioned poor timing, she’d invited Drake over to the manor for some quality planning and collaboration because one) her research suggests that Drake would actually be useful unlike certain other people who ran around Gotham in the middle of the night, and two) she is the best chance of this situation being handled with any sense of competency. 

Because the thing is, Barbara Gordon doesn’t walk anymore.

Barbara Gordon taught herself to _fly_.)

 

~~

 

“How are we going to go about this then?” 

Tim glances up from the computer (the _Bat computer_ , and if he wasn’t inches away from saying screw it, grabbing a motorcycle, and roaring out of the cave to save Aunt B and Tiffany himself maybe he’d be able to appreciate it) to see Dick Grayson grabbing an assortment of items from a closet that holds an arsenal that would make the US special forces cry with jealousy. Stephanie Brown is hunched over something in a closed off area to the right and Damian had dragged the unmasked Red Hood off down a hall the moment Tim started making his way down the stairs.

Bruce hasn’t returned from wherever he stormed off to. Tim had never thought anyone could override Batman’s decisions, and this hadn’t been an override so much as ignoring the stone-faced anger that had descended upon Bruce’s face the moment Barbara admitted to letting him in. She hadn’t even been able to fully explain the situation before he left, walking up the stairs and giving Tim a look that defied description, beyond anger, beyond fear. If anything, it reminded Tim of a man who’d walked into Traveler’s Corner while he was in Kansas for a few months - struggling and beaten down but with a steel core that didn’t know how to stop trying to fix things. 

Bruce had only stopped long enough to take Tim’s backpack, pulling it off his shoulders. No words were exchanged and Tim didn’t fight him. He was smart enough to recognize that foreign electronics in the Batcave could be a major security breach. The backpack had been opened by the time Bruce reached the door, his hand shuffling through the contents.

Tim had hardly noticed. With Barbara’s permission and login credentials (which he assumes will be changed immediately after he leaves), he sits down in a surprisingly comfy chair and dives into the DI systems. 

With how much digital security has improved over the past decade, it’s horrifying to realize the number of weak spots available for exploitation. He’s only somewhat less disturbed by the security for Aunt B’s programs and data, which he deduces must be on a drive that’s not connected through wifi or cable to the company servers. She and Tiffany always worked in that one set of rooms, so odds are they’re partitioned somehow, detached from the rest of the building. It’s not inconceivable to think that the data the Tim knows the Joker must want is inaccessible except through physical theft or the minds that created it.

“Carefully,” Barbara answers from where she types next to him. “Tim, do you have any idea why the Joker would go after Dr. Byeon?”

Tim had asked himself that on the way to the manor and only came up with one feasible reason. “Have you heard about the medical nanotech initiative at DI?”

Barbara nods while Dick hums thoughtfully. “I think it was mentioned in the papers a couple months ago,” he says.

“That’s the one,” Tim says. “Aunt B started it with the hopes of tackling things like cancer and HIV, using nanobots to target viruses and assist the body in fighting disease. The thing is - ” He pulls up a video on the big screen and Dick and Barbara watch as a group of ants devour an injured bird somewhere in a forest, “ - without highly specific programming, you get things like this. The bots attack anything similar to the thing they are supposed to neutralize.”

Barbara watches the images intently, deep in thought. “It’s like AIs for identifying pictures online. They have a list of parameters, but not the capability to interpret what they’re actually seeing. That’s why you end up with a brown couch included in searches looking for brown bears.”

“Exactly. Tiffany’s made incredible process in the programming and we were about to move from simulations into human testing - ”

“Excuse me, _what_?”

Tim turns and watches as Stephanie steps out of the cordoned off area she’d been working in. It must be the medbay judging by the sterile beds and metal cabinets. She also looks pretty pissed off.

“You were jumping from simulations to human testing? What were you - ”

Tim cuts her off impatiently. “No, human samples, we were going to do preliminary testing on human samples to see how the programming held up. Aunt B doesn’t _cut corners_ like some of the other crazies in the freaking city.” He’s offended she even suggests it.

His tone must convey how infuriated he is at the idea because Stephanie raises her hands in surrender. “Sorry, my bad.”

“If we could refocus, please.” Barbara shoots Stephanie a look and turns back to Tim. “So why would the Joker care about all this? I don’t know how much you know about him, but it seems out of his usual ballpark.”

Tim shakes his head with frustration, pulling up an old report on the initiative from the DI servers. “That’s just it. He wants chaos, that’s what he said. If he can get those nanobots programmed and activated…” Images of people hemorrhaging, screaming, clawing at their skin flash through his mind. “He’ll get it.”

A fully masked Red Hood finally appears from the cavern he’d disappeared into, trailed by Damian who is holding his mask in his hand, leaving his face bare. 

Damian strides purposefully toward the weapons closet or whatever it is. “Do we know where they are now? The doctor and Tiffany?”

Barbara types rapidly, pulling up a number of CCTV feeds. “The security systems at DI caught a suspicious van entering the premise an hour ago, but it parked in a blind spot. Let me just get a view of the hall, find the right timestamp…” Her fingers fly over the keyboard and, “There they are.”

His nails bite into the meat of his palm as Tim watches a herd of clown-faced goons drag his aunt and her assistant down the hall. The Joker follows behind, his head thrown back in silent laughter as Harley Quinn dances around him. 

She came to my shop, Tim distantly thinks. I should have killed her then.

Barbara switches between the cameras, tracking the group as they make their way up the elevator and to Aunt B’s office area, her keycard giving access every step of the way. Aunt B had given everyone Christmas Eve off, including security, so there’s no one to sound an alarm. There’s also no one to get killed for standing in the way. The cameras stop right where Tim thought they would, around the corner from the hall that Tiffany stumbled from so long ago. A few more clicks and the cameras show a live feed. 

“So they’re at DI.” Red Hood leans down, pulling a surprisingly large knife from his boot. “Let’s storm the castle then.”

Barbara shoots him a fond grin. “And _that_ is why you don’t make the plans around here.”

“Father, Batgirl, and I can handle this,” Damian says. A few innocent looking balls find their way into his utility belt and Tim places even bets on smoke grenades or flash bombs, but you never know with the Bats. 

Red Hood grunts and manages to fill the sound with impressive derision. “You couldn’t handle that psycho if he was blindfolded and high on laughing gas.”

Damian growls and Tim readies himself to ignore a pissing match when Stephanie, voice high, points to the screen. “What’s that?”

Tim looks up to the upper left corner where a camera feed shows two vans speeding out of the DI garage. Once they reach the road they turn in different directions and disappear. Barbara rewinds the feed and they watch as five men carrying a container each load their cargo into the back of the vans before they split up into two groups. 

They all watch in silence and then Dick says what they’re all thinking.

“Well...shit.”

This has just made everything a little bit more complicated. Barbara maximizes a still of the first van from the feed, zooming in on its side where a blurry logo is slowly rendering into - 

“That’s from water plant, isn’t it?”

Barbara nods at Stephanie’s question. “I can’t get any identifying marks on the other van though.” She runs through a few other camera angles, before huffing with frustration. “Whatever, I’ll keep tracking it, we don’t have time for this right now.”

Red Hood tilts his head. “So what’s the plan now then? We can’t all storm the same castle.”

“We spread out.”

Tim’s head jerks around to see Bruce walking down the stairs, decked out in the Batman armor that he’d seen so many times through the lens of his camera and for a second, like a ghost from his childhood, Tim feels one hundred percent certain that everything will be alright. 

“I called Lucius,” Bruce says shortly. “He’s reporting Tiffany’s abduction to Gotham PD. Gordon will wait on our updates before sending out officers for perimeter or containment.” For the first time since Bruce arrived, he looks at Tim without anger in his eyes. “Alfred is on his way to Lakeview Rehab Center to get Ms. Santos and bring her back to the manor. She’ll be safe here.”

Tim’s knees almost buckle with his relief. “Thank you.” 

“Wait, who’s Ms. Santos?” Dick asks, looking between Tim and Bruce. “Why are we bringing her here?”

Bruce stares at him flatly for a moment, then reaches into his belt and pulls out a phone, waving it sarcastically before tossing it back to Tim. With that done, he turn to Barbara. “You’ll be running comms.”

“Yep,” she confirms. “Batgirl and Robin will follow the plant truck and Nightwing will track the other van. I’m going to provide them coordinates until they catch up.” While she’s saying this, Nightwing starts sprinting down a cavernous corridor, yelling out that he calls dibs on the motorcycle. Damian and Stephanie must find this unacceptable because they cry out twin protests, running off in pursuit. “You and Red Hood will, as he said, storm the castle.” Then she turns to him and says, out of kindness he’s sure, “If you want, you can follow along on the comms with me.”

Tim can’t help but chuckle, humorless, and Barbara leans back, eyebrows rising at his response. “Thanks, but I’m going to DI.”

Bruce and Red Hood scoff in unison and then look at each other warily, apparently not used to agreeing. 

“No, you’re not.” There’s no quarter in Bruce’s statement and Tim is well aware that he’s now dealing with Batman, not Wayne. Unfortunately for Batman, he’s never had to deal with a Timothy Drake that’s hanging on to his composure by a thread and is more than willing to let that thread snap in a very violent way if pushed too far. Luckily, Tim is positive that violence won’t be necessary since he almost certainly would lose.

“Yes, I am and I’ll tell you why if you like.”

Red Hood snorts. “Okay sure, tell me why a civilian should come along on a B&E that will definitely end in violence and bloodshed?”

Tim smiles blandly. “First, because if I’m with you,” he pulls out his Drake Industries ID card out of his jeans pocket and shows it to them, “no breaking and entering will be necessary. And second, I’m your insurance.”

Bruce scowls. “Insurance.”

Tim nods. “Because if those nanobots are programmed and activated and Aunt B and Tiffany are compromised?” He grins chillingly, spreading his arms wide. “You’re looking at the only other person able to shut them down.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! This chapter is a bit longer than usual because things are ramping up and also I needed to take some Barbara Gordon appreciation time because she is a freakin' gem that deserves all the things!!! Some people speculated that Tim would run off half-cocked which he totally would have if Barbara wasn't 3000 steps ahead. Plus, our Tim, though a genius and awesome, isn't actually a vigilante and his skills, though impressive, are limited in some aspects. 
> 
> Basically, he gonna need help.
> 
> I also feel the need to put a disclaimer here: I KNOW NOTHING ABOUT MEDICINE, NANOTECH, OR COMPUTERING (specifically hacking). These topics are written about with a smattering of research and a whole bunch of 'eh, sounds plausible' so please do take it with a lump of salt. For all readers who are knowledgeable about these things - I apologize ヽ(ヅ)ノ
> 
> Also, I wrote another side story, this time featuring our dear friend, Clark Kent, so if you're interested take a look at [the simple hearth of a small farm (the center of our universe)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17402114). If you do, I hope you enjoy it ^_^
> 
> Finally, thank you all so much for your kind comments - I reread them when I'm losing motivation and they get me going again. You are all the absolute best!! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ♡


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes even when you solve the problem, that doesn't mean there aren't consequences.

Alfred, though he would never admit it, is slightly confused.

The woman Master Bruce instructed him to retrieve, one Ms. Santos, is staring out the window, chewing absently at her fingernails, an unfortunate habit that Alfred’s only just broken Miss Brown of. A cacophony of colors surrounds her in the form of a heavy coat and scarf, red and green featuring heavily, and while her eyes are fixed on the scenery, her still injured leg propped up along the backseat, it’s clear that whatever she is seeing isn’t the passing pavement. 

“Is it warm enough for you, madam? I can turn up the heat if you prefer.”

She doesn’t react for a moment, then straightens, the question finally registering. She turns to the front, making eye contact with him in the mirror as she says, “Oh no, it’s perfectly fine, thank you.” Rather than going back to looking out the window though she continues to watch him, curiosity in her eyes.

Alfred turns his attention back to the road.

After a moment of silence, Ms. Santos says thoughtfully, “That’s a lovely tie you’re wearing.”

“Thank you,” Alfred replies, his eyes straying once more to the mirror. Ms. Santos’ eyes crease as she smiles at him. Something, some half-forgotten recollection, makes him add, “I acquired it years ago in a little shop in Metropolis. A rather quaint place.”

She hums thoughtfully. “I lived in Metropolis for a short while many years ago. What was the name of the store, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Not at all.” Searching his memory though he realizes, “Though I don’t believe I still remember the name.” It was so very long ago now, decades. Most of that enforced vacation has long since been consigned to the rubbish heap of his mind he’s sure. However, there is one part of that trip he certainly has not forgotten. He’s reminded every time he puts on his silly bowtie that made Master Bruce smile. “The owner’s name was John though. Returned my wallet and then invited me over to the shop. A charming fellow. Quite vivacious.”

When her eyes begin to well with tears, he wonders with some discomfort what he said to get this rather unfortunate reaction. 

“Yes,” she says softly, turning her face toward the window once more, “he was.”

~~

Drake makes Jason uncomfortable.

This pisses him off. Jason doesn’t get uncomfortable. Jason gets angry or sarcastic or verbally explicit or, every once in a while after too many drinks or a meal from the kitchen of Alfred, nostalgic, but he had outgrown uncomfortable by the time he was fourteen and standing in a monkey suit in front of the press wearing a smile that could cut diamonds it was so sharp. After all the things he’s seen and done, Jason is proud of his ability to look any situation in eye with an unimpressed _fuck_ you. He’s seen the worst of humanity, been it, and been killed by it. 

A pretty stellar resume if you want someone seven ways to fucked up and working on an eighth. 

So when Jason says Drake makes him uncomfortable, he means it less as a statement about the guy’s personality (which he’s already established is _probably_ fine, if only judging by his tastes in literature) and more a statement that Drake is almost definitely running a game that the rest of them are missing.

So yeah, Bruce must have absolutely lost his fucking mind to let Drake come along on the mission. Jason might not want to be in the car with the present company, but civilians don’t come on missions, period, no matter what special skill set they have. It would have been the work of a moment to tie Drake up, sit him in a chair with audio and video access, and make him talk them through whatever bullshit programming needs doing, not to mention a whole lot easier than having to play bodyguard when going up against the Joker.

The taste of green starts to fill his mouth and he roughly swallows, suppressing it. 

This isn’t going to end well. He can feel it. 

“So who exactly are you then?” Drake asks conversationally, speaking for the first time since getting in the backseat (which _also_ , getting delegated to the backseat for babysitting duty is _not_ okay (though the other option was sitting next to Bruce so…eh, he’ll live)), fingers moving rapidly over a touch screen tablet that Barbara had shoved into his hands before they left. The DI systems are pulled up and Drake is methodically going through some things that look highly scientific and are probably somewhat related to whatever nanotech nonsense is going on. 

But mostly, what the fuck? “Didn’t you say you knew who all of us were? Wasn’t that a thing that _just_ happened?” 

Somehow the question still hasn’t been asked why Drake knew that information in the first place. The guy might be magic, but nothing about how he’s acted so far suggests that whatever abilities he has includes anything super useful, otherwise Jason would bet the entirety of Wayne Industries’ holdings that Drake would have gone after the Joker on his own. The look in his eyes when he saw the video of Dr. Byeon being dragged along the ground at DI was one he’s seen in the mirror too many times to count. 

Jason _intimately_ knows what that look means even if the others don’t.

Drake doesn’t even bother looking up when he says, “I guess you can consider yourself special then because you’re the only one I couldn’t place. So do you have a real name, Hood, or should I just go back to calling you red mask?”

Okay, that’s just uncalled for, they did the name thing months ago. He considers not responding, but honestly, there’s nothing much Drake can do with his identity even if he has it. Out of all them, his is the one that people would just straight up not believe. One of the few benefits to being declared dead almost a decade ago. Very, _very_ dead. 

“Jason, _asshole_. Jason Todd.”

Finally, Drake looks up from the tablet, showing the first hint of non-murdery emotion since the cave as his eyes widen in shock. “ _Jason Todd_?”

Jason manfully resists the overwhelming urge to do jazz hands. It’s hard with an introduction like that.

The wide eyes disappear and Drake frowns. “You look…different. Than you did before.”

Yeah, well, that’s what happens when you get your face beat in by a maniac wielding a crowbar during adolescence. It took him a long time to be okay looking at himself in the mirror, but he managed it after a while, forced himself to really. Jason counts himself lucky that everything ended up in the right place afterward, nevermind having a pretty face. 

“And you died.”

Jason shrugs. “Death? Not as permanent as you think. I think we’ve all done it at least once now.” He still wins the award for most violent death though. Hooray.

(Though he knows deep down he wouldn’t wish his demise on anyone. He couldn’t do it to Bruce even at the height of his insanity. Perhaps the only one he could do it to, when he takes a long hard look at the entire world, is the Joker.)

Drake stares at him in silence after the revelation, a slight furrow in his brow. Then he says flatly, “I’m gonna process that later,” and turns his attention back to the tablet, pulls up a new screen and begins to type again. 

_Wow_. Gotta applaud that ability to compartmentalize. 

From the driver’s seat where he’s avoided the entire conversation - how _typical_ of him - Bruce finally speaks. “We’re coming up on Drake Industries. Get ready.”

Jason snaps his helmet into place and grins. Batman-sanctioned violence is the best kind.

~~

“That was…easier than expected,” Dick says, staring down at the two men unconscious on the pavement. 

They hadn’t even tried to run him over, he thinks crossly. Pulling the motorcycle in front of the truck never works, but these guys had just, _ugh_ , panicked.

“They drove into a streetlamp,” Barbara says in disbelief, and yeah, that is indeed what happened. Dick is embarrassed for them honestly. The driver knocked himself out for Christ’s sake, and it took less than two minutes to chokehold the other into unconsciousness. If life and death wasn’t at stake, Dick might even be disappointed it was so easy.

“Yep.”

“Wow.”

“I know.”

A sigh comes over the comms. “Right, well, Robin and Batgirl are still in pursuit of the other van, but they’re close. Best guess, these ones were heading to the bay as a backup plan.”

“To do _what_?”

He can almost hear Babs shrug. “Dump the nanobots in the water and hope for the best probably. Bay water is siphoned into a lot of water treatment plants not to mention the homeless communities near the piers.”

“Want me to check the cases?” Dick asks as he pulls the driver out the passenger side, leaning him up against one of the tires by his friend. That done, he leans over and grabs the key from the ignition.

“Yes, give me a full description please.”

“Got it,” he says, fitting the key into the back lock and turning it.

He throws open the backdoors of the van and finds the silver cases, not even secured or anything. These guys were the _worst_ , seriously. Pulling them over, he gingerly lifts the lid, taking care not to jostle the contents. “There are these tubes, about the size of my forearm? I don’t know, they look like they’re filled with some sort of liquid.”

“Those are the nanobots, they’re going to be too small to see with the naked eye.” He hears rapid typing noises and Babs hums thoughtfully. “How many of the tubes are there?”

“It looks like…ten. Five in each case.” At least they didn’t just throw them in the case he supposes. There’s decent padding throughout the interior with sectioned out portions for the tubes. He lifts one out and holds it up to the nearest light. The liquid has a silvery tint to it, but nothing to suggest that hundreds of thousands, maybe even millions of little robots are floating in there, waiting to be unleashed into the bloodstreams of the Gotham populace.

“Copy that. Secure the drivers and leave them nearby, I’ll put a call into GPD to come pick them up, but you need to take the case with you. I’m going to transmit the coordinates to Robin and Batgirl’s location.”

“Wait, I should go assist at DI - ”

Barbara cuts him off. “Trust me, Nightwing, they’ve got it handled right now, but I can’t say the same for the other two and they have priority. We’re going to have bigger problems than two hostages if those nanobots get into the water supply. Once they’re out, there’s no getting them back. And everyone will be a hostage then.”

~~

Tim would like it noted that he doesn’t like this plan for a myriad of reasons. 

He doesn’t like that it revolves around Batman somehow being able to draw the Joker’s attention and keep it, doesn’t like that Red Hood ( _Jason Todd!_ ) is somehow supposed to be able to liberate the hostages while Batman is keeping the Joker occupied, and he _especially_ doesn’t like that his role in all this is to somehow make sure Harley Quinn a non-issue while this little rescue operation is taking place. A lot of details are missing. For instance, the eight guards that were staking out the lobby and the seven that came out the elevators after one of the guards called for backup on a walkie-talkie. 

At his count, that makes fifteen details that were unaccounted for. And he’d thought Batman was good at strategy.

“Make your way up the stairs,” Batman calls as he flips a guy over his shoulder and knocks him out with a solid punch to the head. Tim wonders if anyone has ever done a study on CTE in career supervillain lackeys. The findings would probably be very telling. “We’ll follow behind.” A few twists and turns has Batman swiping Tim’s ID across the card scanner and pushing him through the stairs, the door slamming shut behind him with a resounding thud.

Yet another mistake. 

Tim’s lips firm and he turns, ascending the stairs. He never thought his workout routine would be useful beyond the hypothetical end of the world scenario, but he’s glad he kept it up. Even so, by the time he reaches the fifteenth floor, his legs are burning fiercely and he’s cursing whatever idiot decided CEOs need office space on the top floor. Thank the stars that DI headquarters is wide rather than tall. Just thinking of doing this in the Wayne Enterprises building makes him want to die.

The red light on the card scanner on the door to the top floor shines dispassionately. Reaching into his pocket, Tim pulls out his copied ID card and rests it against the card reader, watching as the red light blinks over to a friendly green.

The thing is, Tim knew the moment he shut his computer with the Oracle’s message still flashing on the screen that he was going to go after the Joker. No question in his mind. No hesitation. The only question was how to make sure he had the resources he needed. Knowing that, and knowing Batman, he’d needed some form of incentive for the Bats to include him in the rescue operation after he gained access to their systems to find out where his aunt and Tiffany were. 

Walking into the Batcave he’d had two things he could use as leverage: his knowledge of DI’s research and his keycard. And despite what the Bats may have thought, he wasn’t about to give up either of those things. It was simple to slip his extra ID card into his pocket along with a few other pieces of paper before he left his apartment. He’d forgotten his card once and Aunt B had teased him for thirty minutes before making him an extra - “Just in case,” she’d said. Other than Barbara, the Bats had all been too rattled at his arrival in the Batcave to do a thorough search of his person, and having Barbara Gordon vouch for him meant that they weren’t as on their guard as they should have been. 

He’d feel guilty at taking advantage of the situation if he had any room for an emotion other than ice-cold rage.

The Bat computer’s access to traffic cams confirmed what Tim had theorized before he even left his apartment. His aunt hadn’t been able to say much over the phone before she was violently silenced, but it wasn’t difficult to interpret the Joker’s response.

_“That means it’ll be twice as fun to test!”_

And the end of the call - the invitation. For all that his last name was Drake, he wasn’t actually involved in anything at Drake Industries, anyone who had done a moment of research would know at least that much. His participation in the nanomedicine initiative is virtually unknown to people outside the project and since he only came in to assist after hours, he’d only interacted with Aunt B and Tiffany for any significant amount of time. 

(Cold fear still hovers in the back of his mind along with the restless question _how did he know_? He ignores it for now. He has to.)

Perhaps Bruce Wayne thought that Tim was only a shopkeeper in truth, no matter his suspicions and fears. Perhaps he thought that Tim, despite knowing their identities, knowing their headquarters, was unable to act on that knowledge.

Perhaps he simply thinks Tim is…harmless.

The light is green. He opens the door a crack to see whether any guards are left and lets it swing fully open when no one is there. 

When he steps forward, his face is expressionless. It’s probably frightening. He doesn’t care.

~~

It is particularly unfair that the Joker should have goons that are actually competent this time around, Damian thinks as he backflips out of the way of a flying foot that would have almost certainly broken something if it had connected with his head like its owner wished. Someone as spectacularly insane as the Joker should only be able to attract people who are equally deranged. More often than not the _truly_ crazy have unintelligent fighting styles that boil down to ‘hit hard, shoot a lot, then hit harder’ with no actual strategizing and plenty of flailing arms you can grab and throw. While not necessarily a challenge, it certainly saves time.

Unfortunately, Quinn must have been in charge of recruitment this time around judging by the difficulty he and Brown are having. 

“I _really_ don’t like these guys,” Brown growls as she pushes herself to her feet after a throw sends her flying into the wall with a resounding thud. “Since when does the Joker hire help that’s actually useful?”

“It does veer from his normal methods of operation,” Damian agrees, dodging another swipe at his head. 

The water treatment plant isn’t very far from Drake Industries and he and Brown had caught up with the three Joker-lackeys only moments after they forced their way through the door of the plant so usually that would be easy pickings. Damian finds it personally offensive that the opposite is proving true. They aren’t even using the guns strapped to their belts!

A crackle comes over their comms. “Nightwing is on his way, you two.”

“He’s already done?” Brown says incredulously, throwing a batarang at her opponent and cursing when he easily knocks it aside. “What, did he get the incompetents and we get the professionals?”

“Pretty much actually,” Gordon answers dryly. 

“I find that painfully unacceptable.” Damian extends his bo-staff, scowling as his chosen minion pulls a nightstick from his belt. 

“Life is pain. Anyone who says differently is selling something.”

“The Princess Bride,” Damian says, ducking under a swing. He braces himself on his staff and kicks up, nailing the man under the chin and sending him stumbling backwards. “I watched that one with Brown recently.” He follows up his kick with a running leap, hooking his arm around the man’s neck while he’s off balance and slamming his head into the ground. “While the plot was contrived I did enjoy the actors’ characterizations of their assigned roles. Buttercup should have killed Humperdinck though.” 

“Huh. Never considered that before,” Gordon says over her typing, a hint of consideration in her voice. 

Damian pulls out his taser and sticks it against the man’s neck while he’s down, pulling the trigger to send fifty thousands volts of electricity coursing through his body. “Clearly Buttercup was meant to be the heroine. Once she harnessed her emotional detachment she would have made a formidable queen.” His opponent’s body goes limp and Damian stands, turning just in time to see Brown get tossed into another wall.

“Batgirl’s fine, Nightwing is five minutes out. You need to get the man with the case,” Gordon states crisply. 

Ah. Damian glances to where the third man had been and finds the space accusingly empty. He allows himself one huff of frustration before following the path of dirt that looks the most freshly disturbed. The tracking skills acquired in his youth have proven useful even in the urban environment he now calls home and in short order he makes his way through a maze of ominously humming machinery.

He finds the man kneeling near a large pipe that feeds into some kind of container. From the side, Damian can see as he unlatches the case and reaches in to pull out something out.

“Do what you need to incapacite him, but do _not_ break the tubes,” orders Gordon over the comms. “They’re filled with suspension fluid for the nanobots.”

“Understood.”

He spares a quick thought for Brown as he runs forward, but then his mind is occupied by the dance of battle. This hostile is equally as qualified as his compatriot, however he has the distraction of attempting to keep the liquid-filled tubes intact and out of Damian’s reach. Damian has his own concern with keeping the tubes safe, but not having them in his possession gives him a bit more freedom as he goes on the attack. All he has to do is wear the other man down. Not his preferred method of fighting, but optimal for this situation.

The man’s horrendous makeup is starting to smear with sweat when Damian sees the opening. As his opponent’s leg comes up, Damian grabs his foot and gives a hard shove backward, grinning to himself as the other man loses his balance, twisting around to stay on his feet. It’s enough time. Before the man can stabilize himself, Damian sprints forward and slams the case lid shut, grabbing it by the handle and taking off back the way he came. A gunshot sounds behind him and he picks up the pace.

“Nice job, Robin.” A beep echoes over his comm and he can hear the smile in Gordon’s voice when she says, “Ah, Nightwing has arrived.”

Yes, Damian can tell that from the obnoxiously loud crash that comes from up ahead and he skids around the corner to find Brown in a crouch as Grayson engages the hostile in a flurry of hand to hand. The man is clearly tired and it shows in the sloppiness of his counters. Still, he manages to land a punch with considerable force on Grayson’s face. When Grayson automatically steps back and to the side, Brown takes her chance and leaps forward, kicking the man’s legs out from under him. He goes down with a thud and Brown whips a - perfume bottle? - out of her belt. Two sprays in the man’s face and he sags, head dropping to the ground as he falls unconscious.

The sound of a gun firing behind him jolts him forward.

“What was that?” he demands as he reaches Grayson, pointing to the bottle in Brown’s hand.

“Oh this? New compound Babs wanted to try out.”

“Why did you not use it earlier?” If two sprays can send a man of substantial size into unconsciousness, clearly it would have been far smarter to use it at the beginning of a confrontation than at the end. 

Brown shakes her head. “It hasn’t really been tested and you have to be really close to the subject. Not so useful when someone is moving around a lot.”

Grayson holds out his hand. “You got the case - everything inside?”

Damian nods as he hands it over. “The final man has a firearm and is only slightly wounded. My priority was retrieving the case.” 

Grayson grins sharply. “Not a problem.” He looks over at where Brown is tying up the two minions. “Piece of cake.”

One thing that the Bludhaven Police Department does have in its favor, despite being chronically underfunded and rife with corruption, is extremely comprehensive training on how to disarm men wielding firearms and, on top of Father’s training, Grayson is annoyingly good at it. Joker’s man has barely come around the corner, weapon raised, before Grayson has his shoulder dislocated and the magazine safely ejected from the gun. 

Damian finds it both irritating and impressive.

“Wait,” Gordon says before Grayson knocks the man unconscious. “Ask him if there are more cases. I don’t want to take the chance we missed something.”

Grayson sighs dramatically before complying. The man postures with contemptuous silence until Damian finally loses his patience and throws a batarang to slice open the minion’s cheek with precision that would make Father proud. 

Well, maybe not Father, but Damian is quite pleased with himself.

However, it takes Brown leaning forward with a sweet smile while she runs a blade across an uncomfortably high location on the man’s inner thigh before he finally cracks, leaning back desperately as he says yes, yes, there was one other van going to the pier, _please don’t cut my_ \- !

When Brown considers the information sufficient, she sprays him with Gordon’s compound and rises to her feet with a small and satisfied smile. “Oracle, nanobots are accounted for.”

“All of them?”

“Yep.” Brown holds her fist out to Grayson who bumps it with a grin. Damian rolls his eyes when she does the same to him, but secretly feels a warm glow in his chest as he touches his fist to hers.

“Perfect,” Gordon says, “GPD is on its way to your location, restrain the hostiles and get moving. Batman, Red Hood, and Drake have reached the lab and - oh, _shit_.”

Damian stops, blinking in shock. Gordon has been known to curse on occasion but _never_ over the comms.

“What?” Grayson sounds equally astonished which only makes Damian more concerned. “Oracle? Is something wrong?”

“Bruce is a dumbass and so am I, that’s what wrong. Get going, _now_.”

~~

The first room is empty when the door slides open. 

It’s the room Tim most often worked in. Computer screens are on and Tim recognizes some of the data as he walks by, reports on the failed simulations, graphs depicting increased targeting capabilities over time as they slowly started making progress. Tiffany or Aunt B had to have opened them. The centrifuge hums from the corner. There’s table along the wall covered in medical equipment, beakers, tubes and flasks. All of them are empty at the moment. Voices filter through the entrance into the conjoining room.

The first thing he sees when he walks into the next room - the room Tiffany practically lived in while she was tweaking the programming for the bots, butterfly stickers scattered sporadically across the white medicinal walls - is the color red.

Bright red. 

Red dripping down his aunt’s forehead, a slick and sick piece of modern art stark against the canvas of her paler-than-normal skin. The red branches off and stains the crow’s feet at the corner of her eyes, wide in something that would be called fear in anyone else, but Aunt B is hardly an acquaintance with the word. Whatever she’s feeling, it’s stronger and harder than that. 

A muffled yell erupts from the corner and Tim turns, eyes alighting on Tiffany’s gagged form kneeling on the ground. Her hands clearly aren’t bound, but they don’t need to be, not with Harley Quinn standing directly behind her with the end of a rope in her hand that leads to a collar around Tiffany’s throat. Bruises are already rising on her skin and Tim fights down the violent urge that floods his mind. It’s disgusting and for some reason he expected more, not of the Joker, but of Harley Quinn. He meets Tiffany’s eyes and finds not defeat or fear, but pure, unadulterated rage.

It calms something in him, her anger, and he turns his attention back to Aunt B. Or rather, than man standing in front of her.

Gloved hands wave in front of her, inches away, the purple so pale it might as well be white. He’s taller than Tim thought, his hair greener and greasier. As a kid, he’d always thought that some sort of photoshop had been done to get his hair to look that bad, but apparently that is just the way it looks. The trademarked pinstriped purple suit is ill-fitting and slightly worn. The Joker from the past was so concerned about his appearance, up to and including the makeup Tim can’t see but is sure covers his face. Maybe he had a harder time putting himself together after his last round at Arkham. Good riddance. Tim hopes he’s been surviving on rats and sewer water.

“Mr. J, our guest is here!” 

Quinn leaps up and down like a child, full of excitement, yanking on the rope each time. Tiffany winces in pain and leans back, trying to relieve the pressure. Tim can’t help but curl his lip as he looks at Quinn. She pouts when she notices his expression, but stops jumping and crosses her arms. “He doesn’t look very happy to be here, puddin’.”

Aunt B’s eyes light up when she sees him, but quickly fill with panic. She steps forward, “Tim, run, get out - !”

The Joker whirls around, grabbing her and pulling her in front of him, wrapping his arm around her neck, and Tim gets his first look at the face that nightmares are made of. 

It’s a face known to all Gothamites, young and old, rich and poor, regardless of race, ethnicity, or any other defining feature because the Joker doesn’t care about those things when he walks out on the street. He’ll gut you no matter what you do for a living or where you lay your head at night. His grin is a horror story, his skin a mask of plaster, and his eyes contain the definition of the ‘light of insanity.’ 

And right now, those eyes are on Tim.

“Timmy! I’m just over the _moon_ you could make it!” He doesn’t hurry as he tightens his hand around Aunt B’s throat in an obvious threat. Tim meets her eyes and purses his lips, a silent entry for her to let him handle it. This time, Aunt B stays silent.

In a normal situation, Tim would try to negotiate the release of hostages, offer up some incentives. Of course, he walked out of his apartment knowing that would never work here. If he tries to fight, he’ll die. He might be decent at fighting, but he’s well aware of his skill level in comparison to psychos that kill people not only for a living, but for a good time. The Joker might not be a major problem, but Harley Quinn would snap his neck before he could say ‘boo.’

Clearly, he needs to stall until the right moment so he takes a page out of his mother’s book.

He smiles politely. “My apologies for the tardiness, there were a few…road bumps on my way here. I do hope you understand.”

“Oh, I forgive you, Timmy! After all you brought along my _favorite_ bats.” He narrows his eyes, his ghoulish grin unmoving. “We can’t _possibly_ start the party without them.” 

Tim keeps the smile fixed, but lets a hint of ice fill his voice when he says, “I’m afraid they’ve been unavoidably detained for the moment. I’m sure they’ll get here eventually. In the meantime, why don’t we talk.”

“Oh, _Timmy_.” Joker frowns exaggeratedly. “If you’re gonna be _dull_ …”

A slip of his wrist and suddenly there’s a knife caressing Aunt B’s neck. He can see her grit her teeth. Not even Aunt B can fight the instinctive reaction to lean away from the sensation and Tim realizes that the blade is situated just above her carotid artery, the pulse leaping in her throat, visible even from across the room.

Tim steps forward. “I just like to play different kinds of games than Batman, that’s all. He’s always so _physical_.” He wishes he was more physical right about now, but he pushes the thought aside. It won’t do him any good right now. So he decides on a gamble. “Of course, I’ve didn’t know we had started playing a game. I’m a little hurt you didn’t inform me.”

The Joker considers him, squinting. “A game?”

Tim shrugs, spreading his arms out. “Life is the most interesting game of all, isn’t it?”

Chaos is the Joker’s calling card. Everyone who lives in Gotham and their mother knows that. But unbridled chaos, in Tim’s opinion, is something people only run after if they are fanatical nihilists, and there’s nothing a nihilist loves more than someone feeding into their viewpoint that life is ultimately meaningless. The Joker takes it a step further. If life is meaningless, then why not twist it into the incomprehensible? The phrase ‘I reject your reality and substitute my own’ was made for someone like him. 

At the same time, the Joker craves validation, attention, wants people to see the world the same way he does. Tim theorizes that the Joker’s greatest desire is not to defeat or break Batman for the hell of it, but to make Batman the ultimate partner in his quest to play with the world and all the people in it. For Batman to validate his worldview.

So Tim calls life a game and hopes that he’s playing his cards right.

The silence drags on for what seems like years before the Joker breaks it with a burst of hysterical laughter, closing his eyes and throwing his head back. He drags Aunt B back with him and Tim sees her hold her breath, trying not to move and nick herself on the knife still resting against her throat. 

“You’re _funny_ , Timmy boy! I didn’t think you were gonna be funny!” 

Tim puts his smile back on. “I try.”

“You _are_ more fun to play with than I thought at first.”

“It feels a little unfair. You’re talking about us playing, but I don’t even know when our game started.” C’mon, you know you want to share your evil plan. Villains _always_ want to share their evil plans.

“ _Ugh_ ,” the Joker groans. “ _Fine_. Batman is being so _rude_ making me do exposition while I wait for him to show up.” Tim stops breathing as he yanks Aunt B’s head back, exposing her throat. “But I guess I have to entertain myself _somehow_.” 

This would be easier if the Joker wasn’t so intelligent. Tim isn’t stupid. He definitely doesn’t have control over the situation if the man is blatantly allowing himself to being manipulated into oversharing.

“You see, Timmy, I’ve just been so _bored_ lately.” Aunt B suppresses a flinch as he strokes her neck, digging the tip of the knife into her skin to draw the smallest drop of blood. Tim digs his fingers into his palm, focusing on the bite of pain. “You know, Batsy hardly ever comes to play with me himself anymore? How rude of him! He just sends the little birdies to sing the same song in a different key.” He pouts. “There was a little girl on the street the other week that said I wasn’t that scary anymore. Me!” A giggle erupts from his throat and Tim barely keeps his face schooled instead of contorting in revulsion. “She thought differently after I carved her face open, but it’s the principle of the thing, don’t you agree?” 

Tiffany lets out a soft sob that is quickly stifled and Tim’s eyes flicker over to her for a second. _What the hell?_ he thinks as his glance turns into a stare. Harley Quinn is leaning forward, restraining Tiffany’s arms behind her back, and humming into Tiffany’s ear softly. Tiffany bites her lip and clenches her eyes shut. 

_“You aren’t listening!”_

Tim jerks his eyes back. The Joker is glaring daggers at him, the glimmer of insanity that had been dimmed but never doused flaring into a blaze before banking again once Tim’s attention is fixed. His mouth stretches slowly, cutting across his cheeks in a parody of a smile. A cut appears on Aunt B’s cheek and she gasps before biting her lip.

“Tie her off, sweets.”

“Roger that!” Harley salutes and looks around, perking up and dragging Tiffany along the ground, tying the end of the rope to the leg of one of the tables loaded down with heavy equipment. She brushes her hands off with satisfaction.

The Joker continues as if there was no interruption.

“So I thought to myself, ‘Jay, have you lost your touch? Are you thinking _inside_ the box?’ Sadly, I found the answer _had_ to be yes. So I went back to the drawing board to create a show worth seeing! But everything was so… basic. I needed something that would _really_ get a laugh!” As if he was an artist or performer. The Joker jerks Aunt B’s head back and looks at her, sickeningly happy. “Then I saw this article in the paper about a special project Drake Industries was starting up. Nanomedicine! Curing cancer, fighting disease, ugh, so _boring_. But little robots eating people from the inside out? Now _that_ sounds fun, doesn’t it!”

Tim swallows the lump that suddenly rises in his throat.

“I had Harley take over the investments while I was away and she just did the _best_ job.”

Harley touches a hand to her chest, looking genuinely touched. “Aw, thanks, puddin’!”

The Joker starts to sway back and forth, back and forth, like the pendulum of the grandfather clock that ticked in the hallway of the Drake manor when Tim was a child. “It’s _amazing_ what you can find out if you throw around a smidgeon of money, you know.”

In a slow trickle, the dots start to connect in Tim’s mind.

“A couple phone calls here and there…”

_“We have a very annoying person interested in the project I was telling you about and they don’t seem to understand that we can’t give projections on human trials yet.”_

“A few long walks in the right place at the right time…”

_He keeps his eyes fixed ahead as the hairs on the back of his neck suddenly stand up. Someone is following him._

“And the right moment just…presents itself.” High pitched laughter follows and the Joker slaps his leg with the hand holding the knife. “ _Present_!” He jerks his arms around with no rhyme or reason and Tim holds his breath as the knife’s edge comes dangerously close to Aunt B’s eye. “A Christmas _present_ to me!”

“You’re very clever,” Tim says evenly. “I can see why you’re Batman’s so… dedicated to you.” The words sits oddly in his mouth and he hopes he made the right choice in phrasing.

The Joker preens. “Well, he has good taste in arch-enemies.” 

“I can tell.”

“But,” the Joker sighs dramatically, “he always ends up with little birdies that think they’re smarter than they really are.” He meets Tim’s eyes. “I wonder if you’ve ever gone flying with him - you seem like his _type_.”

The whisper of fear that Tim has been suppressing begins to grow louder and he makes eye contact with Aunt B, slightly shaking his head, a negation to the Joker, but a signal to her not to try anything. Not yet.

“You’re fun, Timmy boy,” the Joker says in a parody of kindness, “but you’re only here as a nice warm-up.” Another thin line of red rises on Aunt B’s skin as the Joker softly drags the blade from her collarbone to ear. “And I’ve decided that I’m all ready for the featured act.”

~~

“You shouldn’t have sent him up alone!” 

“I have his keycard. He can’t access the floor without it.”

“Do you _seriously_ think Drake was stupid enough not to plan for that?”

They run faster.

~~

“Stupid, stupid, _stupid_.”

This is what happens when she gets cocky. She underestimates people. To be fair, Drake was clearly emotionally distraught when he arrived at the manor door no matter how much he was trying to hide it. It wasn’t a stretch to think that his brain might be a bit fried from finding out his surrogate aunt and possible friend had been kidnapped by one of Gotham City’s trademarked psychopaths. God knows she’s it happen to Bruce enough times. 

She missed the obvious signs. Drake was capable of intuiting the way the Cave computer system worked with minimal assistance, had a possible motive worked out within seconds of seeing camera footage. He had bargaining chips ready in his pocket when Bruce tried to leave him behind.

She thought he was in panic mode and failed to realize that Drake’s panic doesn’t dull his wits - it sharpens them into a dagger capable of cutting the most delicate of lines. 

“The nanobots have all been successfully retrieved, Batman.” 

It’s not quite a trump card, but it puts things in their favor. At the very least, any damage from the Joker’s plans will likely end up contained within the DI walls. 

The last camera she has access to is focused on Bruce and Jason as they sprint to the first restricted door. They should be able to catch up, but - 

“Oracle, the card works but there’s a code prompt.” 

“He didn’t mention a code,” she mutters, adding a few uncomplimentary words under her breath. 

“Of course not,” Jason says, looking accusingly at Bruce through his helmet, “because he only wanted a ride here!”

Barbara doesn’t have time for this. “Well, he’s going to get himself killed if we don’t get in there so unless you have something useful to add, Red Hood, I’m going to ask you to shut. up.”

“Can’t you grant us access remotely?”

“I’m trying.” It shouldn’t be this hard is the thing. Breaching the DI servers had been easy, but there must be some other layer of security dedicated to this section of the building because any attempt she made to run the code cracking program was failing. The nanotech files weren’t on the mainframe, obviously they were far more concerned about what happens behind these doors. “Whatever the security is here, I didn’t find it anywhere else in the building. It’s way more advanced.”

On the screen, Bruce steps back and Jason growls before slamming his fist against the unrelenting door. 

“There’s gotta be a way in!”

“Oracle.” 

Barbara looks up in reflex at the screen. Bruce isn’t looking at the camera, but it feels like he’s in the room, staring her down just like he does when he’s on the edge of some sort of breakthrough.

“Did you give him something to write on while he was in the cave?”

Barbara frowns. She doesn’t know what Bruce is going for, but answers in the affirmative because yes, she’d given him a small pad for brainstorming before he stated his theory of Joker’s plan.

Bruce nods to himself. “Get it.”

Barbara huffs, but she wheels over quickly to where the notepad rests on the chair Drake had commandeered when she gave him access to the computer system. 

“Flip to the last page and read me the first group of numbers.”

Bruce can’t be right.

The numbers staring up at her from the final page of the notepad disagree.

What does it mean, she wonders, that Bruce Wayne understands the mind of Timothy Drake? How did he know that Drake would leave a clue for them, even though he’d clearly decided to confront the Joker on his own? Had Drake planned to leave this all along, or had he looked at Bruce in the guise of Batman and decided, if I have to have a backup plan, you’ll do? 

Jason is silent as he moves back, allowing Bruce to step forward and slide Drake’s ID card again. This time, when the code prompt pops up, Barbara reads out the first group of six numbers, watching as the light shines green and the door slides open to admit Batman and the Red Hood into the connecting hall. The next code only has five numbers and she feeds them to Bruce as well. 

Her eyes are gone. They’re on their own.

~~

The rest of the Justice League, his children, and any citizen with a passing interest in Batman would be surprised to know that Bruce hates this part of his work. He hates not knowing the situation going in and no matter how many years of vigilante work he does, no matter how many times he’s done it, he absolutely hates having to improvise when the Joker’s at the heart of a case.

Improvising with the Joker usually ends up in death.

But most of all, he hates _this_.

“ _Batsy_!”

The Joker’s face lights up once Bruce enters the room, as if everything he’s ever wanted has walked through the door. Bruce has wondered for years what it says about him that the Joker has fixated on him to the exclusion of almost all other heroes. Despite what his kids say (Jason excluded), he knows that the Joker goes after them as a way to get his attention, that their pain and death is nothing, only a means to a sick, sick end. 

So he ignores him. 

Instead, he takes quick note of the room. The Joker has Dr. Byeon with a knife to her throat , which is oddly tame for him all things considered. Harley Quinn has set up shop in the back corner with - 

A growl erupts from Jason’s throat and though Bruce doesn’t make a sound, he’s furiously glad that Jason expresses the emotion for him. 

Little Tiffany Fox hadn’t been a fixture at Wayne Enterprises, not like her father or other siblings, but more than once Lucius had put her in his office when he had a meeting to attend and Bruce had quietly worked while she did her homework or drew with the colored pencils her father packed in her tiny green backpack. Somewhere buried in his desk is a picture she drew him for his birthday one year. He sees the rope wrapped around her neck through a slowly thickening red mist. 

With violence brewing in his blood, he gives the signal to halt. Jason flying off the handle won’t help anything.

“It’s been so _long_ , Batsy. Aren’t you happy to see me?” The Joker’s voice rises in pitch and volume, his anger at being dismissed clear.

“I’ll be happy to see you back behind bars where you belong.” He keeps his response short and blunt. “You _and_ Ms. Quinzel,” he adds. There’s nothing the Joker hates more than attention going to Harley Quinn instead of him. He frowns, but nothing else.

Bruce tries another tack. “My team has already neutralized your men and retrieved the cases, Joker.”

It doesn’t have the effect he wants and the Joker doesn’t take the bait. “Oh, Batsy, haven’t you learned by now? You might neutralize my men, but you can’t neutralize _me_. Prison walls can’t hold me. And I _know_ , you miss me when I’m away. Who else challenges you the way I do?” Bruce watches stoically as the Joker flutters his eyelashes. “It’s going to be _beautiful_ the day you finally leap off the edge with me.”

Bruce says nothing, but Jason scoffs. “Never going to happen.” It’s not meant as a compliment.

The Joker pouts. “Maybe. But you can’t say the same thing about your little birdies, can you?” 

Jason stiffens and Bruce feels danger approaching like a speeding train.

“First little birdie left the city,” the Joker sings eerily. Bruce vaguely recognizes the tune from his childhood. “Second little birdie got shot, third little birdie died in _A-fri-ca_ , fourth little birdie got dropped, and the fifth little birdie - ” The thoughtful pause becomes a giggle becomes a chuckle becomes cackling laughter. “I’ll need to think of something _real_ special for him.” 

Then for the first time since they walked in the room, the Joker looks at Jason. He grins. “Can’t go repeating _failed_ magic tricks!”

 

(At Alfred’s insistence, Bruce has season tickets to the ballet that he must use at least twice a year. He’d never admit it to Alfred, but he enjoys the shows, appreciates the way the dancers anticipate each other’s movements and react accordingly, turning what could be a jumble of chaos into a smooth wave of coordinated motion. 

In the top floor research lab of Drake Industries, a ballet begins.)

 

A heel digs into the Joker’s foot and he curses, releasing Dr. Byeon who immediately drops to the floor and rolls out of the way, just in time to avoid Jason as he lunges forward, an extendable baton suddenly in his hands. 

“Aunt B!” Drake runs to his surrogate aunt, pulling her out of the way. 

“We need to get to the computer,” she says, but a whirlwind of rage and violence blocks their way. Bruce is glad to see that Drake recognizes it and moves them to the wall, eyes analyzing each move.

“Puddin’!” Harley Quinn cries. Bruce moves to intercept as she attempts to rush to her boss’s aid. She hisses at him, arms and feet flying in a vicious attack. He sees Tiffany behind her, trying to take advantage of the opportunity to free herself, yanking on the rope attached to the table leg. When that doesn’t work, she begins picking at the knot.

Pulling out her bat, Quinn becomes a whirling dervish, spinning fast in waves of blows against him. He dodges most, deflecting the ones he can’t avoid with his arms or letting them glance off his shoulders. Bruises will cover him tomorrow, but that’s nothing new.

“Get _out_ of my _way_!” Quinn yells as she lands a particularly strong hit.

A scream. Tiffany stops yanking at the rope and covers her mouth at whatever she sees behind him, wincing when a crack sounds.

Bruce doesn’t turn. He spins and when his cape obscures Quinn’s view, kicks out at her wrist’s last placement. His foot connects to something solid and Quinn cries out. Not giving her the chance to regroup, he comes back up with an uppercut that sends her stumbling back, but doesn’t put her down. 

The commotion behind him isn’t distracting until it suddenly disappears. In the silence, Harley Quinn’s eyes grow large. 

“Hood?” Bruce says. 

No answer. All he can hear is heavy breathing. Then, a high-pitched giggle. 

“Batman.” 

Drake’s voice is firm with unspoken command. Bruce takes a silent, deep breath and turns around.

Drake is holding Dr. Byeon, their backs pressed against the wall. She’s bleeding freely from a large cut on her neck and collarbone, but neither are trying to staunch the bleeding, their eyes fixed on the scene in front of them.

Red.

(It’s always red.) 

The Joker is sprawled out on the ground near a computer console, left leg clearly broken. Compound fracture. Blood oozes from multiple wounds, the purple suit stained with blotches of dark discoloration. From the way his clutches his side, Bruce guesses there are some broken ribs involved too. A wet wheezing noise escapes him as he breathes so Bruce throws in a punctured lung to the tally. Pain shudders through him, he looks to be more than halfway to unconscious, and despite that, somehow, the Joker still finds a way to laugh. 

Bruce doesn’t care.

Because standing over him is Jason, red helmet off and thrown to the ground, the red domino mask the only barrier between his eyes and the Joker’s - were the Joker even capable of meeting them. In his hand, he has a gun. 

“Hood.”

Jason is silent as he looks down. Then, “A failed magic trick. Couldn’t even disappear someone right.”

“Hood, step away.” 

It’s the wrong thing to say. 

Jason’s back goes up and so his gun. “I don’t think I will, Batman.” You could hear a pin drop. The click of the gun cocking is much louder than a pin. “I think instead I’ll do what you should have done a long, long time ago.”

“The ammunition is nonlethal.” That was the only reason Bruce had allowed the single gun Jason had kept tucked into his holster. 

“You know, a rubber bullet can still kill,” Jason sneers. The barrel of the gun moves slowly to rest directly over the Joker’s right eye. “You just need to aim it at the right place. I bet he’ll still have time to suffer before his pathetic life finally ends.”

“Hood - ”

“He deserves to die!” Jason screams, and the agony and rage in his voice are like bullets to the heart. “He deserves to die like I did, knowing that not even Batman will save him!” The gun doesn’t move as he stares down at the Joker’s face, but he’s speaking to Bruce when he says. “Tell me no, _Batman_. Give me _one_ reason why he should live.”

 

(Murder looked out at him through Jason’s eyes when he came home in disguise, Pit-mad and feral. Murder in his eyes when he glared at Bruce through his door at Arkham after Dick was forced to put him behind bars. 

So Bruce stayed away. 

The next time he met Jason’s eyes - he’s not sure, possibly _years_ later - it was Jason looking back at him.

Not the child he had been. That child was gone. Writing English essays and reading Shakespeare in the library, those were all things relegated to the vault of his mind along with other precious memories. A new Jason, grown from the seeds of that child, burned and beaten and broken, that was who looked back at him.

Somehow, while he wasn’t watching, Jason healed. He doesn’t know how. He doesn’t feel he can ask. Because once he saw the murder gone from those hazel-green eyes, he had to accept that instead of being a father to his son, he was a jailer. 

This is the truth: Bruce deserves Jason’s hatred because when things were difficult, when the miracle wasn’t what Bruce expected, Bruce gave up on him.

This is what Bruce learned: He can never give up on Jason again. If he does, it won’t just break Jason.

It’ll break him, too.)

 

“You’re right.”

The world stops. Jason stops and the Joker stops and Bruce thinks that his heart has stopped because he’s never let himself say this feeling, the one that he keeps buried deep in the chambers of his mind, out loud. But perhaps for the first time ever, knows what he needs to say to his son. So he says it again, says what he means and leaves no room for ambiguity.

“He deserves to die.” And for this, for this Bruce will break his rule about codenames in the field because Jason needs to know he means it. “But not by our hand, Jay. He doesn’t get what he wants from us.”

Jason’s hand starts to shake. “He said it earlier and he’s right. He’ll escape again and he’ll kill more people. You know he will.”

That may be, but, “We can’t be the ones to kill him, Jay. We can’t or he wins. He wins this pathetic game he plays where he tries to make us like him.” That’s what it ultimately comes down to in the end. The Joker wants one thing. “He wants to make us monsters.”

“I’m already a monster.” There’s no doubt in Jason’s voice - in his mind, this is a fact, not a question.

“You’re not. You never were.” Bruce swallows. “ _Jay_.”

If Bruce has to watch Jason kill the Joker, he’ll lose his son for good and his hands twitch, desperately wishing to reach out and snatch the weapon from Jason’s hands. But this time he doesn’t.

This time, unlike every time in the past, he lets Jason decide for himself.

Jason stares down at the broken body of the man who killed him, his hand steady. And then, in a fluid motion, he uncocks the gun and slips it back into its holster. He looks at Bruce for the first time since they walked in the room. 

“I am a monster.” The words are harsh, but his eyes are searching and whatever he finds in the little bits of Bruce’s visible features make them soften the slightest bit. “But I’ll be damned before I give this clown the satisfaction of my bullet in his brain.”

There’s nothing more that needs to be said.

Dr. Byeon moves forward, Drake shadowing her like an overprotective parent. “Get that rope off my assistant or I swear to God, I’ll kill that woman myself.”

While Bruce was talking Jason down, Harley Quinn must have decided to double down on whatever plan they made because now she’s the one with a knife poised threateningly by Tiffany’s face. Surprisingly, Tiffany doesn’t look frightened so much as annoyed. The expression is one Bruce has seen on her father’s face many, _many_ times.

Quinn frowns, uncertainty in her eyes as they flick back and forth between Bruce and Drake. “Mr. J said not to let her go until he said so.” The conflict in her voice is odd. She twists one of the bells on her hat with her free hand.

“Well, he’s not in a position to be making any decisions right now,” Drake says firmly, stepping forward, “so why don’t we just - ”

“Aw, you thought you _won_.”

They turn too slowly. Somehow, possibly through his sheer insanity, the Joker has leveraged his way to his feet, his broken leg twisting out at a sickening angle. How he did it without screaming, Bruce will never know. He runs forward at the same time as Drake, watching as if in slow motion as the Joker keys into a few numbers and presses enter. 

“The thing is, boys,” The Joker laughs. “I win _anyway_.”

~~

It takes less than a second for Bruce to put the Joker down, but the damage is already done. Tim curses himself as he reaches the computer console. 

“Drake,” Jason orders harshly and Tim obeys the unspoken command. He studies the readout, cursing when he realizes that the programming has been activated. 

“He activated the nanobots.”

“How did he do that?” Jason asks angrily. “He couldn’t have just guessed the code, he’s not that smart.”

“I don’t know, but Batman says they’re all contained, why did he even bother - Aunt B, can you - ”

A cough comes from behind him and he turns to see Aunt B take a step toward him. She chokes out, “Tim,” clutching at her side before collapsing to the ground. 

This isn’t right. Tim whirls around, intent on grabbing the Joker by his throat and shaking him until he breaks, and only Bruce holding him back prevents him from reaching the clown. “ _What did you do?_ ”

The Joker grins maniacally, eyes unfocused, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. “ _I_ didn’t do anything. You see, Timmy boy, Dr. B was feeling a little thirsty earlier so I offered her a drink. She tried to be polite, but I _insisted_.” And then he laughs and laughs and _laughs_. 

“Shit,” Tim says, and then he’s running to the computer, trying to deactivate the program, typing as fast as his fingers allow and cursing his human limitations. If he could just isolate the command for - but there’s some subroutine that wasn’t there before. His override code isn’t working - 

“Tim.”

\- the program isn’t running the way it was during the last testing phase, something’s not right, what are these changes? _Why_ are there be changes? 

“ _Tim_.”

There’s a ringing noise in his ears and his knees hurt. Oh, he’s fallen down. He’s on his knees now. That makes sense. 

He can vaguely tell that crashing noises are coming from his left where the Joker was down, words are being spoken rapidly over his head and somewhere from the corner is muffled screaming, but none of it is important because they aren’t going to stop the nanobots currently coursing through his aunt’s body, probably targeting her cells without discretion, tearing their way through her intestines and into her bloodstream. The bots won’t work fast, but they don’t need to be fast to cause damage that will be impossible to heal. 

Aunt B is dying and he can’t save her.

A hand, cool and firm, grasps his and he comes back to himself a bit, looking at Aunt B. Her eyes are soft and sad (and wrong, she is too strong to look like that, has always been so strong), and Tim holds her hand tightly, squeezing it. Some part of him whispers if he holds it tight enough, maybe she won’t go. 

“It’s Christmas Eve,” she says, and Tim nods because it is. They were supposed to have lunch today and exchange Christmas presents. He’d gotten her a DVD set of that trashy Korean TV drama she pretends not to like because he just knew she’d rag on him for it, but secretly be so pleased.

“Your gift is in my office.” He shakes his head, but she adds, “it’s from me and your parents. You’re almost twenty-two now. I think you’re old enough to appreciate it.”

Tim takes a shaky breath. “I can’t wait open it.”

Aunt B smiles and Tim, trying his best to smile back, starts to cry.

~~

(Harleen Quinzel’s favorite holiday as a child was Christmas.

For one day, maybe two if she was lucky, all the fighting and all the screaming stopped, as if her family remembered what they were supposed to be instead of the dysfunctional, demented people they actually were. Christmas was a time for hope, for goodness, for change.

One year, they read the Polar Express on Christmas Eve and Harleen had whispered to her mother, “Can you really hear the bells if you still believe?” 

Her mother had replied, “Yes, puddin’,” and the next morning there was a little box in the branches of their pathetic, creaky Christmas tree. When she had opened it, a sleigh bell - just like from the story! - was nestled inside. She had shaken it and the sound it had made was just as pretty as the one she imagined from the book.

For a whole year and a half, Harleen would clutch the bell close when the screams echoed through the house, when the crashing furniture and breaking glass scared her so much that she couldn’t leave her room. She would shake it and listen to the chime of the bell over and over again, trying to drown out the noise.

Then her father saw it and, in one of his many fits of rage, threw it violently against the wall. She was relieved when she snuck downstairs that night and found it under the couch. She quickly, but quietly, crept back to her room and shut the door, hiding herself under the covers.

But when she shook the bell, there was no chime.

“I believe,” she whispered desperately. “I _believe_.” But no matter how much she shook the sleigh bell, it didn’t make a sound. 

When she met Mr. J, she realized that it wasn’t the bell that was broken, but her head. With Mr. J she could believe whatever she wanted and it would be true! She could hear it in his laugh and the explosions that made beautiful colors fill the sky. Maybe he was mean sometimes, but she loved him anyway, would always love him for showing her the wonder and joy that chaos could bring.

She bought a bell at a store that sounded like Christmas and it sparked a memory.

She followed the boy from the shop and discovered he was interesting in a boring kind of way. He did boring people things, like going to museums and doing grocery shopping, and he had no family except a woman he called Aunt B who turned out to be the head of Drake Industries. Mr. J has a plan and they make it happen and yet… 

The girl’s name is Tiffany Fox and the woman is Dr. Byeon and the boy is Timothy Drake. They were going to celebrate Christmas together. The woman is going to die. The girl is choking herself on a rope and Red Hood is coming and she’s supposed to die first, but - 

Harleen Quinzel cuts the rope and lets the girl go. Merry Christmas.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So let me start off by saying *covers face with hands* I APOLOGIZE FOR BEING A BIT LATE!
> 
> As you can probably tell by the jump in word count, this chapter was by far the longest chapter of this story to date, mostly because I didn't want to break this part up. It's probably a little confusing as it is and I felt putting them in smaller chapters would interrupt the flow unnecessarily. So I hope that you do enjoy it even if it's longer than usual!
> 
> Tiny Rant: The Joker is awful, both in the comics and to write. I'm not 100% happy with the characterization I did here of our villains, but I do want to say that I view Harley Quinn as pretty tragic for a lot of her arc in the comics - being abused by the Joker, coming back to him again and again. The choice she makes at the end of the chapter is her taking a first step away from that, even though it's almost an unnoticeable step. Basically, I love Harley Quinn as a character even though she's psycho and want good things for her T-T
> 
> We're coming up on the end of Traveler's Corner! I think there will be one or two more chapters and then a short epilogue. 
> 
> I love hearing from y'all and I hope everything is well with each and every one of you! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ♡


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An aftermath, told in four parts.

_LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF_

_JANET DRAKE_

_I, JANET DRAKE, being of competent and sound mind, do hereby declare this to be my last will and testament (hereinafter, “Last Will & Testament”) and do hereby revoke any and all wills and codicils heretofore made jointly or severally by me. I further declare that this Last Will & Testament reflects my personal wishes without any undue influence whatsoever. _

_At the time of this Last Will & Testament, I am married to JACK DRAKE, and I have ONE child who is listed as follows: _

  * __TIMOTHY JACKSON DRAKE born APRIL 1, 19XX__



_In the event I am the sole parent or legal guardian of my non-adult children at the time of my death, then I hereby nominate and appoint_ _EUN-SEO BYEON_ _as legal guardian of my child…_

_…_

_ADDENDUM_

_LETTER TO GUARDIAN_

_Dear Eun-seo,_

_I hope you never have to read this letter as I have no intention of leaving this world any sooner than I have to, but it is always better to be prepared for such eventualities. If Jack is still alive and capable of caring for our child, then this letter will mostly be unnecessary. If that is the case, simply know you are my best friend and I care for you very much. However, if Jack and I are both gone, I have a difficult request to make of you._

_Jack and I have named you Timothy’s guardian in our wills. With the way Drake Industries is trending in R &D, you will likely become de facto head of the company as well. It may be too much to ask of you, Eun-seo, but we would ask it of you anyway. _

_Timothy is very strong-willed. If I know my son at all, he will likely petition for emancipation if he’s at the appropriate age to do so, and I imagine he will be successful in his bid. Let him. Legal guardianship is not the thing we need from you the most. I know that Tim has his shop and that keeps him busy and engaged outside of school, but a shopkeeper is no substitute for a family. If Jack and I are both gone, you are the closest thing that he has left now. You’ve always been better at that sort of thing than me anyway. Be his support. Guide him through life._

_We are not around as much as we should be. Timothy is getting older and I hope to change that. However, if I die before I do so, please tell Timothy that if we have been hard on him, it is because we have the highest expectations for him and we know that he can and will exceed them. I am proud of him and of the man I know he will become._

_Take care of our son, Eun-seo. We are trusting you with our heart._

_Yours with love,_

_Janet Drake_

~~

 

“ ** _Etaerc a latrop neewteb ereh dna ereht!_** ”

 

~~

It’s two o’clock in the afternoon on Christmas Day and Dick is sitting in perhaps the most uncomfortable chair in existence.

Though Dick is eminently familiar with the roof of the GPD, he has only visited the interrogation rooms a few times before, usually undercover and under grave circumstances. He’s never had a suspect grab hold of him as she walked out of a crime scene and refuse to let go, even when the police arrive on scene and try to question her. He certainly never expected Tiffany Fox to be sitting across from him, her hands clasped together in front of her, knuckles pale with nerves and fear, preparing herself for an interrogation that is certain to be painful simply because of the subject. And he still doesn’t understand why she has decided she will only speak with him. It’s a good thing he learned how to roll with the punches a long time ago.

“I know that the past day has been very hard for you,” he begins, “but I’m going to need your full recollection, every detail you can remember about the incident. Do you think you’re up to that?”

“It’s fine, Nightwing.” Her voices drips with exhaustion and Dick winces behind his mask.

“If you need to stop at any time - ”

Her lips firm and she says quietly, but unwavering, “It’s _fine_.”

Tough. He doesn’t remember her being a tough kid, but he knows better than most how people change. “…Okay then. Start at the beginning.”

Tiffany looks down at her hands and lets out a breath. There’s a ring on the middle finger of her right hand and she twists it. “We were going out to eat, Dr. Byeon and I. Dr. Byeon insisted on buying me dinner when we left late from the office, said it was an early Christmas present.” She smiles a bit at the memory. “The sun was almost set by the time we got outside and we decided to walk - the restaurant wasn’t very far and we both wanted to stretch our legs after sitting down most of the day. They grabbed us when we crossed in front of an alley and… no one tried to help us.” There’s anger in her voice mixed with disbelief, and Dick can see in her eyes she’s back in that moment again, confused and frightened. “I screamed, but they just watched.”

Dick grabs the water bottle he’d stolen from the kitchen area before he came in the room. “Here,” he offers softly. Dehydration is no joke and it’s probably been over twenty-fours since she ate or drank anything.

“Thanks.” A pause and a sip. Her hands don’t shake as she puts the bottle down and she seems steadier. “They threatened me. These guys dragged us back to the office and used her card to get into the building. I don’t know how they knew where they were going, but they did. They didn’t even hesitate.”

Barbara is still in the Batcave trying to figure that out. Bets are currently riding on old architectural plans filed with the city, but the city only started digitizing building proposals recently. The DI building was done when hard copies were still customary.

“When they got to the security doors - the doors that require a manual code - Harley Quinn held a gun to my head and said that if Dr. Byeon didn’t get them inside they would blow my brains out.” Here her voice finally shakes, and she looks up and meets his gaze, the horror still lingering her eyes. It’s a fear that Dick knows intimately, one that sadly will take a long time to fade. “The Joker laughed, laughed like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. So she let them in. They told her if she didn’t finalize the programming for the nanobots, they were going to torture me.”

“She wanted to keep you safe,” Dick says comfortingly. He doesn’t bother asking if she did what the Joker said - Tiffany wouldn’t be here if she hadn’t. “She did the programming by herself?”

Tiffany nods. “Yeah. I could see parts of it as she was working, whenever the Joker wanted to - to motivate her I guess. At first she was doing the basic programming, putting in the commands, but then she - ” Here she pauses, her eyes drifting upward.

Dick waits patiently. Honestly, Tiffany’s doing much better than he expected. Usually victims jump around the event they’re remembering, going back and forth as they recall details they forgot to mention earlier, going off on tangents that aren’t relevant to the investigation at hand. The human brain, despite what certain people may wish, isn’t actually a machine and doesn’t work like one, especially not in emotionally volatile situations. Most people go from emotional high to emotional low and fill in the details later. Tiffany on the other hand is methodical, going through the evening as if it was a timeline. A bit of waiting time is the least he can offer.

Eventually she continues, thoughtful. “When she finished the bots’ programming they told her to set up a signal for them to activate when Batman arrived. It was - important to him that Batman be there. He kept talking about how Tim would bring him, Tim would find him. I don’t know why he thought that, how he even knew who Tim was. I guess he was right though.”

How the Joker knew of Tim is something only the kid himself can answer, but how the Joker knew Tim could find Batman? That’s a question Dick himself has been wondering.

Tiffany continues. “We were using our own blood samples for the next testing phase - hers, mine, and Tim’s.” Her voice takes on a lecturing tone, the words clearly a comfort in their familiarity. “Most cancers are the result of mutated DNA in specific cells types that result in uncontrolled growth, creating tumors along with other symptoms. If a nanobot can distinguish between normal and mutated DNA, it can target cancerous cells and one day eliminate them. It’s not a _cure_ for cancer, not in the sense that it will prevent cancer from occurring, but it _will_ revolutionize treatment and prolong the lives of those people with some of the most debilitating forms.”

“That’s amazing."

“It is,” she says, a thankful expression on her face. “A lot of medical professionals think it’s a pipe dream, but Dr. Byeon always said there was no harm in trying to solve a program, only harm in letting the problem grow. I joined the initiative because of my sister, Tam,” she adds, straightening a bit. “She was getting better from her accident and then…she got sick.” Pursing her lips, Tiffany twists her ring faster. “My brother became a doctor for her and I wanted to find a way to help her, too. I thought this would be the way I could make a difference, do something to make things better for her and for people like her.”

No hesitation is in her eyes when she looks at him this time and for the first time since the interview began, she stops twisting her ring and unclasps her hands, resting them on the table.

“We were programming the nanobots to recognize DNA - that was the first stage of testing, to see if we could make them distinguish between different DNA samples for targeting, but the only DNA samples in the system were ours. I saw enough to guess what Dr. Byeon was doing.” She swallows and a tear escapes her eyes. She doesn’t bother reaching up to wipe it away and Dick wonders if she even notices or if she’s caught up in her head, remembering. “She programmed the bots to only recognize hers.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


(Standing in front of the keyboard, Eun-seo Byeon knew she had limited options.

Part of her said to wait, that help would come, that if she just did what the Joker demanded, she’d make it out alive.

The other part of her is the one that buried her best friends and sat with their son in silence as he tried to pretend he was okay, held a letter tucked away at the end of their will and let her heart break as their child tried to leave a legacy of pain behind him. The same part that saw people dying in hospital beds as a teenager and decided, ‘This. This is what I’m going to stop,’ because the alternative was to let people suffer and she could not let that stand. From there came the strength in her voice when she swore the Hippocratic Oath and the silent promise to herself to do no harm, through action or inaction, to those who required her aid.

Both parts of her saw the truth in what the Joker hoped to accomplish and agreed that her own death was preferable to being an accomplice to mass murder.

For the stupid clown’s enjoyment, she let fear carve its way across the lines of her face, tremble through her arms and down to her fingers, let it inhabit her body like a parasite. She made sure to keep her gaze down as she typed in command after command for the program. She wore fear like a shroud.

She wouldn’t let him see it didn’t reach her eyes.)

  
  
  
  
  
  


“She wasn’t afraid.”

The water bottle is empty when Tiffany puts it back down.

“The bots could have been floating through the veins of every person in Gotham and it wouldn’t have mattered in the end. She made herself the only viable target. When the Joker made her drink the solution, she didn’t even hesitate, like she didn’t just code her own death sentence.”

“She was very brave.” Dick manages a small smile, trying to be comforting and thinking he’s probably failed.

He means it, too, that she was brave, unspeakably brave really. The Joker has kidnapped and murdered countless people throughout his time in Gotham, and those are only the ones that Batman has records of. Other villains shudder when they hear the Joker’s name, even the crazies. That Dr. Byeon managed to keep her head enough to not only keep Tiffany safe, but find a way to save everyone if the Joker was successful?

Dick’s not sure there’s another person out there that can claim the same, not even Batman.

“Nightwing?”

He looks up and Tiffany is staring at him beseechingly, leaning forward.

“Where did they take Dr. Byeon? Is she going to be alright?”

Dick won’t lie to her. He can’t, not about survival, but at the very least he can give her  a bit of hope.

“They took her to a place that’ll give her the best chance. From what you said she’s a fighter, Tiffany - whatever happens, I’m sure she’ll fight her hardest.”

~~

It’s an unknown time on Christmas Day and Tim is staring out into space.

They taught the students in school that you can’t see the stars from space. When the astronauts landed on the moon, they had taken pictures that sent the whole world into a tizzy because it seemed like all the constellations and bright stars had disappeared into the blackness, blackness that seemed so intimidating when there were no lights to fill it up. You don’t realize how much one pinprick of light does until it’s no longer there.

Of course, it turned out you can still see the stars in space. It is just that you need a much higher shutter speed because the earth and moon ware so bright that they drown out the glow of the stars. When Traveler’s Corner took Tim to rural areas he used to set up his camera out in the dark and open land, sitting and waiting the sky as he did long exposure shots, and it was always worth it to see the galaxies spinning across his film in a way he could never capture in the city.

The stars are quite bright through the glass wall of the Watchtower.

Tim is on the ground, his jacket bunched up under his head in a makeshift pillow, head turned to stare out the glass wall. His sense of time is completely shot; minutes have become hours have become meaningless. All that’s left is the waiting and Tim has always been very good at that.

Eventually, a soft _whoosh_ reaches his ears and he gets to his feet, watching as the metallic door that looks like something out of Star Trek finishes sliding open. A figure he’s only ever seen in magazines, on television, and on the other side of a glowing portal in the Drake Industries lab walks through and approaches him, the _click-click-click_ of her boots echoing down the hall. Bruce must have somehow called her. He would wonder why Batman cared enough to transport a civilian to this place, but he’s just too tired to care.

“How is she?” he asks.

Zatanna Zatara, taller than Tim imagined and more stoic than she’s ever seemed on her TV specials, musters up a wan smile. “She’s lucky. Any longer and we might not have been able to do anything for her. Our medics have put her in stasis for now while they try to figure out a treatment.”

Tim can’t stop his hackles from raising a bit at the vagueness of her answer. “What does that mean, ‘figure out a treatment?’ You said she’s in stasis now, how long will you keep her that way?”

Zatara frowns, but not at him. “This is a tricky case, Mr. Drake. Our medical department is one of the best and most experienced in this quadrant of the galaxy, but they have never seen anything as irregular as these injuries, especially because they are microscopic and so dispersed.”

The underlying meaning is clear, but Tim needs to hear it said out loud. “Be honest with me, please. What is her prognosis?”

Zatara sighs and Tim has his answer before she even speaks. “Mr. Drake…We’re not sure if she got here in time. Most of her major organs were already failing, her kidneys are shot and her intestines, if I may be frank, are some of the worst I’ve ever seen - and I’ve seen some fairly horrible wounds. The extent of the damage is unknowable right now, but I _promise_ you, we are doing everything we can for her.” The sincerity in her voice is palpable, and Tim takes a deep breath, holds it for a moment, and then releases it.

“I’m sorry,” he says, apologizing not for what he’s said really, but for all the things he wants to say that continue swirling in his head. “I know you’re trying your best, just - will I be able to visit her?”

The apologetic look she gives him is answer enough.

“Honestly, you shouldn’t have even been here in the first place, but you jumped through the portal too fast. We let you stay because Batman vouched for you and we trust him. I don’t think we’ll be able to make that exception again.” Her eyes drift over his shoulder and she nods behind him. “I’m sure he’ll be able to keep you updated and we’ll contact you whenever there’s a change in Dr. Byeon’s condition.”

Tim nods his acceptance.

“Drake.”

Tim turns around and Bruce is standing there, cowl on, looking out of place in the brightly lit hallway. Despite his unyielding posture, something about him, even in his black and forbidding uniform, seems softer than it did in the Batcave.

Maybe it’s because he might have just watched Tim lose one of the few people he has left in the world. There’s something to be said for shared trauma.

Bruce steps to the side and says lowly, “It’s time to leave.”

Tim nods and turns back to Zatara. “Thank you for all you’ve done. No matter what happens, I appreciate it.”

Her mouth twitches in a tired smile. “I hope to send you some good news soon.”

That’d be nice, but Tim doesn’t expect much. “I’ll be waiting.”

With that, he ignores the cracks that he can feel spreading across his heart, does an about face that would make a military man proud, and follows Batman down the hall and away from his aunt.

~~

It’s six o’clock in the evening on Christmas Day and Jason is rolling into the Batcave with a chip on his shoulder he’s pretending is larger than it really is.

“Why did we have to do cleanup this time? Isn’t that what the police are _for_? I had to sneak out of the building, you know how hard it is to do that when I’m in uniform.”

“Because despite my father’s efforts there are still corrupt officers at GPD, no, the police are not there to make your life easier, and yes, I’m aware, red doesn’t lend itself to subterfuge. I always thought that was a statement of _fuck you_ to Bruce, trauma symbolism or something.”

“Nah, I just really like red.”

It’s true that he likes red, but he picked it for his uniform not because it was his favorite color, but because it was more difficult to see the bloodstains. There were a lot of bloodstains in those early days as Red Hood. Most of them didn’t come from him.

Barbara doesn’t bother looking up from the computer screen. “I’m sure. Now if you’re done complaining, you want to tell me how scrubbing went?”

Jason shrugs. “Went fine. Mostly I made sure that the computers were wiped with that virus you gave me and that most of the blood was gone. I still think Drake’s gonna be pissed if you managed to destroy his probably-dead aunt’s life work, even if it was better that no one else have the chance to get their hands on it. The risk was minimal.”

“Minimal doesn’t mean nonexistent and just because Dr. Byeon is… incapacitated doesn’t mean someone couldn’t go for round two of Joker’s infect the populace plan. I’d rather not give anyone a headstart on the next attempted mass casualty.”

“Fair enough. You get to tell him when he gets back though.”

“I will take on that responsibility,” she says, toggling between three different screens rapidly. Then she falls silent, absorbed in her work, and Jason watches her absently, his thoughts drifting back to the past few hours.

Due to his upbringing, Jason developed the enviable skill of ignoring things that make him uncomfortable and reacting with anger and resentment when people try to push him to address the things that cause that reaction. You know, the emotional maturity of a ten-year old. It is what it is. Jason probably wouldn’t have survived his messed up childhood if he hadn’t developed those coping mechanisms. He _didn’t_ survive his adolescence, but that was due to extenuating circumstances.

There were a lot of things he realized during the past twenty-four hours and they are making him _extremely_ uncomfortable. For once though, he doesn’t want to ignore them; he thinks part of the problem might be that he’s been ignoring them for too long.

Walking over to the lockers, he methodically removes his gear, cleaning the grooves and edges meticulously before putting each piece in its proper place. It’s a soothing ritual that he hasn’t done in the Batcave for a while now, but it still helps him calm and organize his thoughts.

Barbara must have been waiting for him to finish because he’s just slipped on his shoes when she says, “I didn’t turn off the comms when you got to the lab.”

“Good for you.” Great. He hates it when people hear him get emotional. They start to get _ideas_.

“What you said to Bruce,” she starts and Jason is going to interrupt her right there.

“Is between him and me.” And technically the hostages and Drake and Harley Quinn and _that man_ , but he’s ignoring them for the sake of his sanity and self-respect. They had other things to be concerned about anyway, what with the gratuitous violence and almost dying.

Barbara turns and looks at him flatly. “Bruce might have believed your words out of some deep-seated parental desire, Jay, but I know better than to think you decided not to kill someone so they won’t ‘win.’” She actually does the finger quotes, carefully blank expression and all, and it’s so out of place Jason almost laughs. “That’s not you. That’s not even you- _adjacent_.”

Of course Barbara wouldn’t buy that. She’s always been the smartest of all of them and the one with an acceptable amount of distance from their special brand of familial drama. She has her own family drama with her father to deal with. Of course she wouldn’t accept that Jason suddenly buys into Bruce’s holier-than-thou idea about killing and self-flagellation when violence goes a bit overboard, not after years of making his dissenting opinion on the ‘code’ known, loudly and frequently. You can’t ‘win’ when you’re dead.

“Jay, really,” she says, uncharacteristically subdued, “why didn’t you kill the Joker?”

There’s a reflexive wave of rage that he forces down when she says the name, an old rage that will never go away. It had taken a long time for Jason to come back from his Pit-induced insanity, even longer to accept the fact that parts of it would be with him forever, that the green that he sees in his nightmares follows him into his waking hours, but he’s managed it. Little things helped, small moments that don’t linger in his memories except for the feelings they created. He relearned compassion, rediscovered mercy, and hid them both deep under his skin, tucked away from disappointed eyes. He’s managed to forgive Stephanie for being his replacement, forgive Dick for putting him in Arkham, and forgive himself for making such measures necessary.

He didn’t realize until he was standing over the Joker with a gun in his hand that somehow, during the last ten years, he’s managed to forgive Bruce, too.

Killing the Joker would have been incredibly satisfying. He knows it in his bones. But Bruce was standing there telling Jason he wasn’t a monster, pleading with him not to go further down a path he’s already chosen, and Jason knew. If he killed the Joker, Bruce wouldn’t blame Jason; he’d blame himself because that’s what parents do and he’d never really recover because in many, _many_ ways, Bruce is a fucking idiot.

Jason thought he’d accepted the destruction of his relationship with Bruce a long time ago. It’s disconcerting to realize he still cares - too much as it turns out. There was a gun in his hand and a question that, ultimately, came down to this. Who is more important: Bruce or the Joker?

In the end, the decision was terrifyingly simple.

Of course, he’s not gonna tell Barbara any of this because despite what she might think, he’s not going to let himself be bullied into involuntary therapy, especially not with someone who has all sorts of conflicts of interest and an unhealthy need to be involved in every aspect of her surrogate family’s life because she doesn’t trust them to act like functional human beings capable of positive interactions without intervention.

 _Yeah,_  he can therapy, too, _Babs._

Instead, he says, “I didn’t feel like it, maybe next time,” and shoots her a grin that shows a few more teeth than necessary.

She gives him a look, but surrenders gracefully for now. He’s under no illusion it’ll stay that way, but he’ll take the reprieve and try to figure out what the fuck he’s going to do next now that cathartic murder has been temporarily removed from the schedule.

He hasn’t read _Merchant of Venice_  in a while. Maybe it’s time to visit the manor library again.

~~

Christmas is two hours away from being over and Alfred is sitting in the foyer trading innocent stories with Ms. Santos - “please, call me Joyce” - about her husband and Alfred’s former employers, both conscientious enough to avoid bringing up the elephant wandering around the room.

Christmas lights haven’t been put up at the Wayne Manor for many years, the cost prohibitive without anyone to enjoy them, but each year Alfred insists on decorating the inside in full splendor, complete with a towering Christmas tree at the end of the foyer and a smaller one in the corner of the den, under which he organizes the Christmas gifts with care. The one year he tried to let the house occupants put them under the tree themselves there were two that fell and broke and one that somehow found its way under a couch where it sat unnoticed until Alfred’s annual spring deep-cleaning. He should have known better.

Usually, he would be washing dishes right now, basking in a meal well-prepared and the knowledge that his charges were sleeping off an ungodly amount of consumed food. A small container would be in the fridge, set aside to discreetly disappear sometime during the day. Alfred would pretend not to notice. Unfortunately, instead of doing any of those far more preferable activities, Alfred spent Christmas Day waiting for news of his charges’ latest confrontation with the Joker. Quite frankly, he wishes the man would do the decent thing for once and die.

Joyce was surprisingly understanding about her limited access to the manor, simply asking which room she should stay in and making herself comfortable once Alfred directed her to one of the bedrooms in the guest wing. At one point, he looked in on her, only to see her worrying a rosary between her fingers, eyes closed. It was somewhat comforting to know he wasn’t the only one trying to hide their concern.

They’ve migrated to the parlor off the foyer with a tea tray when Alfred hears the distinctive creak that signals the grandfather clock is opening two rooms over. He stands politely as Bruce walks in, having changed into casual wear. Timothy Drake is behind him and Alfred hides his surprise.

Bruce nods to Joyce, watching as she grabs her crutches and hobbles to her feet, meeting Mr. Drake with a hug that he stiffly accepts.

“He wouldn’t say anything except that he wanted to see her,” Bruce says lowly, careful that the other two occupants don’t hear him. “He hasn’t answered any questions since we left the Watchtower.”

“He’s likely in shock,” Alfred murmurs, his opinion only strengthening when Joyce cups his face and the man leans away, as if the touch is too much to bear.

“It’s crucial we get his information. He was with the Joker alone for at least twenty minutes. Any word or phrase could have a meaning he’s unaware of, but that has importance to our investigation.”

“Master Bruce,” Alfred begins to say, but is cut off.

“Timothy, now that you’ve seen Ms. Santos we need to talk about your conversation with the Joker and what happened while you were in the labs.”

Mr. Drake is quiet for a moment, his eyes slowly drifting over to look at Bruce, but stopping on Alfred for some unknown reason. He steps back, out of Joyce’s reach and she frowns, but allows it.

“I’ll send you a written statement,” Mr. Drake eventually says, “with everything that was said and done while I was with him. That should be enough for your investigation.”

It’s an odd request to make. Bruce, of course, doesn’t like it.

“A written statement won’t be sufficient, we need to - ”

“I think,” Drake interrupts, “I’m going to take Joyce home now. I don’t want to see any of you again, not for a while. Maybe not ever.”

“Drake - ”

“Do you want to know when I discovered your identity, Mr. Wayne? I wasn’t even out of primary school.” Alfred feels Bruce stiffen beside him. It’s quite the claim to make. Yet looking at the young man, Alfred can’t bring himself to disbelieve it. “I followed you all around Gotham with my camera, then you and Dick, and then you and Jason.” He meets Bruce’s eyes with an unnameable emotion swimming in their depths. “I watched you fall apart when he died.”

Bruce sucks in a deep breath and Alfred reaches out and gently touches his arm, offering comfort he knows the other would never ask for. The time following Jason’s death was one of indescribable agony for Bruce. Alfred patched him night after night, watching with sadness and fear as the bruises became worse and the bloodstains began to grow.

Most of the the blood wasn’t his. Stephanie, all of sixteen with a burning desire to right her father’s wrongs, was the saving grace Bruce didn’t want and Alfred was grateful for her everyday.

Mr. Drake takes a shuddering breath, the first outward hint of his emotional state. “I didn’t want to be involved in this world. I left it behind when,” he reaches out thoughtlessly and Joyce slips her hand into his, squeezing it gently, “when I decided there were more important things to do. I shouldn’t have let myself be dragged into it again.” His voice fades to almost a whisper. “I told myself to stay out of it.”

Bruce stares at him, an unreadable look in his eyes. It is clear to Alfred something has shaken Mr. Drake to his core, something which they are not privy to. There’s no sense to his words, but they have meaning to he and Joyce seems to have an inkling if the broken look on her face is any indication.

Mr. Drake is lost in his head and Joyce suddenly looks at him, a fierce protectiveness flooding her eyes.

“We are going home, now,” she states, inviting no argument.

Bruce does not protest as they leave. When Alfred asks him the next morning why he let them go without more of a fight, Bruce is silent for a long moment. When he speaks, a decades-old guilt lives in his voice.

“I looked at him and saw myself.”

~~

_Dear Tim,_

_I’ve enclosed your Drake Industries ID card, just as I have for the past four years. It took quite a bit of research to hunt you down this time, though I do hope you’re having a wonderful stay in Florida._

_That’s not actually quite true. I hope you’re having a good time, but I would like it better if you came back to Gotham. You have so many things waiting for you here, not the least of which is Drake Industries, but I understand that you are finding your own way. I’m just afraid that you might ignore the way that leads you home._

_No matter what, Tim, I’ll be waiting for you here. I know you needed to get away. However, it’s been years now and I find that I miss you dearly, regardless of the time that has passed. At the very least, I hope you will come home for this next Christmas. I have a very special gift for you._

_And as always, I am proud of the man you are and the man you will become._

 

_All my love,_

_Dr. Eun-seo Byeon (Aunt B)_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was simultaneously very difficult and very easy to write because it was so hard to find the right tone even though I knew what was supposed to happen. I'm not sure how it came across but in the end I just hope you all enjoy it. 
> 
> We're winding down on this story - just one more chapter and an epilogue! I can hardly believe it!! 
> 
> As always, I love you all and each of your comments and kudos bring me great joy and inspiration when I'm struggling. I hope you each had a ballin' Valentine's Day and if you were sans SO like me, that you were able to get in on all those chocolate sales this weekend! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧
> 
> (Random question that just occurred to me: What would be the Batfam members' idea of a perfect date? Like, which one would actually consider crime-fighting together romantic?)


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim would love to be left alone to suffer through his emotions, but the Bats aren't so good at listening to instructions. Maybe that's a good thing though.

**December 25th**

Sometime after Joyce falls asleep upstairs, Tim stands in the shop looking up at the ceiling, darkness heavy around him like a thick cloak. 

“Why did you bring me back here?” he asks quietly.

The words echo in the space. No shelves fill the floor, no pictures adorn the walls, the normally comforting room a chamber filled with silence. It would be frightening on any other night. Traveler’s Corner is empty. It’s never been empty before.

“I wish you hadn’t.”

There’s no response.

He says nothing else as he walks upstairs to his apartment. He lies on his couch for hours, eyes shut. When the sun peeks through the window, he hasn’t slept a wink. The door to his bedroom eventually opens and Joyce hobbles out, fully dressed. She gives him a small smile, kisses his forehead, whispers, “It’s okay, dear, I’ve got it,” and makes her way downstairs. 

It’s the day after Christmas and Tim spends it learning to hate himself.

~~

**[blocked number]** : (14:42)  _ No updates, WT medics still formulating treatment plan. Inform me if you need anything and it will be provided. _

~~

**January 1st**

New Year’s Day dawns with grey skies and wet snow filling the streets.

It’s Tim’s first day back in the shop in a week and the only reason he’s standing behind the counter is because Joyce forced three cups of coffee down his throat and parked him there. It was too much effort to fight her well-intentioned pushing. 

Three customers have come and gone, taking with them a blanket, a old glittering party hat, and a single drumstick. The monotony of it is simultaneously comforting and awful. At the very least, it distracts from the aching numbness that permeates Tim’s body, settling deep in his bones and making each movement an unbearable chore.

The bell above the door jingles and Tim forces himself to straighten. “Welcome to - ” 

He stops, blinking.

Jason Todd, sans masks, looks around at the changed store, an unreadable expression on his face. Traveler’s Corner is a library. A bit ramshackle, a bit rough, but warm and welcoming all the same. Shelves without books are far between, most covered with a wide range of eclectic literature. On the other shelves are a scattering of random items, no rhyme or reason in their location or groupings. It’s a nice shop, a bookstore really. Normally, Tim would like whoever walked in on principle.

“What do you want, Todd?”

Not today. 

Tim doesn’t know what to expect, but Jason looking at him with an expression partway between anger and grudging sympathy isn’t it. “I’m sorry about your aunt,” he states shortly. 

The phrase ‘thank you’ won’t leave his lips, so Tim nods shortly. “What do you 

want?” he asks again. The ever-present numbness recedes slightly, enough for a bit of irritation to slip through.

Rather than answering, Jason walks up to one of the shelves, pulling out a book and glancing over it with passing interest. “This was one of my favorite books when I was a kid,” he says instead, flipping it around to show the cover.  _ The Phantom Tollbooth _ . “I loved all the word play, even though I didn’t really get all of it until I was older. You ever read it?”

Tim stares at him blankly. 

Jason continues, ignoring Tim’s non-response. “It’s crazy, isn’t it, how we can forget that we live in the same world when we have such different lives,” he says. He flips through the pages, stopping on an illustration. The corners of his mouth twitch up. “Milo went on a huge adventure with all those amazing characters. I loved that idea, that if I had a magic tollbooth, I could just drive away into a different universe and experience all those crazy things, especially if it meant I was leaving behind the fucking mess that my real life was.”

When the pause goes on, Tim sighs. He’s tired. He doesn’t have the energy to parse whatever Jason is trying to say, which mostly sounds like nostalgic rambles. “What do you  _ want _ ?” he asks for the third time, trying to sound firm.

Jason shrugs and turns, leaving Tim to look at his back. 

“I was told I should get assurance that you’re providing a statement about Christmas Eve. I figured I might as well come in person.”

The trickle of irritation grows into a steady flow and Tim glowers, the emotion pulling strangely at the muscles in his face after a week of expressing almost nothing at all. “I told Mr. Wayne I would provide him with a written statement and I will, but he’ll get it when I’m ready to give it to him and not a moment sooner.” The feeling quickly fades though and his back, which had straightened and tensed in anger, slumps. “If that’s all…”

Sometime during his little speech, Jason has turned back around, still holding the book in his hand, and that annoyingly unreadable expression is back on his face, hiding whatever thoughts he has. For someone that wears a mask for a living, his poker face is far too good.

His breath catches in his chest and his throat tightens and Tim looks down, grabbing a pencil and one of his many notepads, and starts to write a list of things he needs to do: go to the grocery store, call Joyce’s rehab center, check his phone messages. What else? 

A  _ tap-tap-tap  _ comes from the shelf and the scuff of footsteps walking to the counter is clear. Tim bites back a grimace and forces himself to look up and meet Jason’s eyes. The other man is studying him, gaze focused and intent.

“Milo had to go on an adventure to appreciate what he already had,” he eventually says, putting the book down on the counter. “You aren’t Milo,” he adds,” in case you were wondering. I think you might be a Tock.” He tilts his head and steps backs. “We’ll be waiting for your statement - sooner rather than later would be great.”

Tim doesn’t give him a response, but it seems Jason doesn’t need one, walking to the door and pulling it open with a ding. Then he stops and looks over his shoulder.

“It wasn’t your fault, you know.”

“Yes,” Tim says, “it was.”

The door gently closes and Jason is gone.

Tim looks down at the book,  _ The Phantom Tollbooth _ . With a tired breath, he goes to pick it up and put in back on the shelf before the next customer comes in, only to realize there’s something stuck in the pages. Sighing, he shakes them out, but when they clatter onto the counter, he can only stare at them with a frown.

What would he need with three black lug nuts?

~~

**[blocked number]** : (14:42)  _ Treatment plan decided on, preparing alternative options in case necessary. Inform me if you need anything and it will be provided. _

~~

**January 8th**

Getting Joyce into a taxi is a trial, but eventually Tim is able to convince her that finishing her rehab is more important than sitting in his apartment, making sure he’s okay because, alright, no, he’s not doing great, but good enough for her to leave him on his own for now, yes, I  _ promise  _ I’ll call everyday, don’t worry so much. She only relents after he escorts her back himself, handing her off to the nurses that look equal parts relieved and terrified that she has returned. Rather than calling a cab back to Traveler’s Corner, Tim decides to take the subway. Joyce might be overprotective, but it’s true that he hasn’t really left the shop much during the past week. 

He’s about about two-thirds of the way home when the walls of the car start closing in on him, the amount of people suddenly too stifling, too many to handle. Taking care to control his breathing, he tugs his messenger bag strap higher on his shoulder as he disembarks. It’s only when his feet hit the pavement above the station that his heart finally begins to slow to something resembling its normal pace.

When his parents died, Tim remembers there had been a few moments like this, when everything would become overwhelming and he’d need to get away. Aunt B had sat with him once in the lab, quietly waiting for him to be okay. 

Now, he’s the reason why she might never sit with him again.

Halfway through his walk the first drop of water hits his face and he pulls a small umbrella out of his bag. Joyce had insisted he bring despite the clear weather report. She’s always been good at things like that.

By the time he reaches his neighborhood, the rain is pouring down in sheets, a torrent without any indication it’ll let up anytime soon. His pants are soaked from the knee down and his socks squelch when he walks. The cold isn’t helping. Pure stubbornness is the only reason he doesn’t give in and try to hail a ride, that and lack of taxis on the road at all. He’ll take an extra hot shower when he gets back as a reward, he tells himself, and he’ll stay in there as long as he wants. 

He’s so caught up in his daydream of hot water that he doesn’t notice the slapping sounds behind him, though to be fair, the pounding of the rain almost drowns them out, too.

“Tim! Hey, Tim!”

He frowns, turning, and then frowns even harder when he sees who it is, wishing he had more control over his emotional state so that he could have avoided this.

“Are you stalking me?” Tim asks flatly.

Stephanie Brown, dressed in bright blue jacket with a matching umbrella, shrugs. “Maybe a little bit, but this was actually just serendipity.”

“Right.” Because that’s a believable story.

“Really!” she says, looking hurt that he doesn’t believe her. Ignoring her seems the better part of valor so Tim shakes his head and continues walking, taking care not to glance at her as she falls into step beside him. They walk for a few minutes in silence. Tim is wondering for how long Stephanie will follow him when she finally speaks.

“I don’t know if I ever thanked you for taking care of me. You know, after I crash landed on your roof.”

Tim’s grip tightens on his umbrella. That was the true start of it, wasn’t it? Him, taking an injured superhero into his apartment and putting himself on the vigilante radar. “No thanks are necessary.” 

He can see her looking at him in his peripheral vision, but he keeps his face forward. 

“I think they are,” she says firmly. Then her voice softens. “I know you don’t want anything to do with us and I get it, I really do.” He chances a glance at her, and her eyes are distant, caught in the grip of a memory. “There were… a lot of bad things that happened a couple years ago. My mom almost didn’t make it and she moved away from Gotham as fast as she could after everything calmed down. I didn’t blame her - I couldn’t. But when she asked me to go with her, I had to tell her no. I have a job to do here and even though it’s dangerous, the good I can do is worth the danger to me.” She kicks the ground, sending water flying across the pavement. “From what Jason told me, Dr. Byeon was willing to do anything to protect you. I think that’s something to be proud of.”

She sounds so sickeningly  _ sincere _ . Maybe he should find it comforting, but for how nice her little speech is, it misses perhaps the most important point that Tim is concerned about and the reason why he sometimes can’t breathe for the roiling emotions that simmer under his skin.

“I’d rather be disappointed than be proud and have her  _ dead _ .”

After he says that, Stephanie is quiet. 

The rain is finally slowing when they reach the storefront. Tim fumbles trying to fish out his keys, his fingers long since numb from the cold and wet. He ignores Stephanie’s aborted attempt at taking his umbrella to free up his hand. 

He’s just managed to grab his key ring when Stephanie says, “I’m sorry,” her voice quiet, like she’s telling a secret. “I wish we could have done more.”

Perhaps he uses too much force as he jams the key into the lock, but he doesn’t care. He finally looks at Stephanie as he opens the door and says, “Please, just go.” With that, he walks inside. 

There’s a lag as he waits to hear the bell ring, signifying the door shutting behind him, and he clenches his jaw, wondering if she’ll follow him, trying to keep talking. It’d be a poor choice. He’s barely holding himself together it feels like and too much more might have him exploding in ways even he can’t foresee. When the bell softly dings and he hears no footsteps, his shoulders sag in relief. He props his umbrella up against the wall and goes around behind the counter, dropping his bag on the chair, putting his arms around his middle and squeezing as he lets out a shaky breath. He looks up.

Hanging on the doorknob is a small first aid kit, the red cross staring sadly back at him.

~~

**[blocked number]** : (14:42)  _ Preparations being made for treatment attempt. Fail-safes in place for unexpected reactions. Inform me if you need anything and it will be provided. _

~~

**January 15th**

The next time is one of the better days he’s had in a while. The nausea has made it difficult to want to eat, but he’d actually managed to sleep through a good part of the night and started to feel hungry around lunchtime. A quick look in the refrigerator was enough to push him into a market run. The sun is gone by the time he gets back, the glow of nearby streetlamps hardly enough to see by, and for some reason Tim finds the gloom comforting.

Then, déjà vu. He’s holding three bags of groceries and there, outside Traveler’s Corner after business hours, is a red-haired woman in a wheelchair, looking down at her phone and typing. The only difference is the lack of a looming male figure playing bodyguard behind her and the addition of a blanket covering her legs to protect her from the cold. 

She looks up as he approaches and gives him a small, but solemn smile.

“Ms. Gordon.”

She nods in greeting. “Tim.”

He’s incredibly tempted to walk inside and shut the door behind him, so tempted he can practically taste it. Something in his expression must give his thoughts away because Barbara’s smile twists into something wry and she says dryly, “I’m sure you would never leave a woman in a wheelchair out in the cold without even letting her warm up a bit.”

He stares at her and then rolls his eyes. Transferring the bags onto one arm, he digs out his key and unlocks the door, moving inside and holding the door open wide. “ _ Please _ , won’t you come in, you poor, crippled woman?”

Barbara stares at him for a moment, eyes wide, before she ducks her head, unsuccessfully trying to hide her snort of laughter. A flash of humor echoes through Tim, but is quickly overtaken by the exhaustion that has become his constant companion in the past weeks. Even now, on a good day, an unexpected visitor is more than he feels equipped to handle.

Barbara rolls inside and Tim lets the door swing shut behind her. 

Almost all his groceries are perishable, but just the thought of having to go upstairs only to come back down and have a conversation - because he’s under no illusion that Barbara Gordon will let him get away with anything less than a full out dialogue - makes him want to lay down on the floor and never move again. Instead, he leaves his bags on the counter and turns around. Hopefully, this won’t last too long.

“You know, I asked for one thing when I talked to Mr. Wayne,” he says, “and that was for you all to leave me alone. So I have to wonder why I can’t seem to go more than a week without one of you trying to talk with me.” Despite his words, there’s no real anger in his voice, something he’s well aware of. Maybe if it wasn’t Barbara he would be more upset. “Was there a problem with my written statement?”

Barbara shakes her head, studying him like he’s some sort of odd puzzle. “No. In fact, that was one of the most thorough statements I’ve ever had the pleasure to read. I would ask how you knew how to write one, but I’ve decided there’s no point in being surprised by your abilities anymore.”

Childhood Tim is blushing furiously at the compliment, but Adult Tim is just ready to go heat up a microwave dinner and would prefer that happen sooner rather than later. “If that’s the case, then may I ask why you’re here?”

Instead of answering, Barbara reaches under the blanket that covers her legs and pulls out a hat. A police hat. One for a child. 

“We’ve done some research on Traveler’s Corner,” she says, picking at the hat absently as she looks around the shop, taking in the black, industrial shelves, reminiscent of the Batcave computer area. Tim didn’t realize it the first time, but that must have influenced the store’s appearance for her. “There’s not much known about it.”

Tim frowns, feeling a bit let down. “If you’re hoping to get more information from me then I’m going to have to disappoint you. I don’t know more than anyone else would.” Nothing that could be put into words at least. Just as one can’t truly know why a person does a particular action, you can’t understand the beating heart that makes Traveler’s Corner what it is.

She shakes her head, raising his opinion of her a little higher than it’s already lofty position. “No, I’m not here for that. I think I have a pretty good idea of what it is and what it does.” Rolling forward, she reaches up, gently setting the police cap on the counter. “Do you know what I learned when I first got this from my dad?”

“No,” Tim says slowly, not hiding his incredulousness. 

Barbara ignores his tone and says, “I learned I could dream of helping people, but dreams are nothing unless put into actions, and actions are nothing unless implemented in intelligent and effective ways.” She meets his eyes firmly, and though he wants to look away, he can’t. “The Joker came after me, too. He tried to break my spirit along with my mobility, but all he did was limit my physical actions; the world wasn’t made for me anymore, so I made a world for myself and put all of Gotham inside it. People forget sometimes that dreams can be stronger than reality. Dreams can  _ shape  _ reality.”

Then she takes out a flash drive and puts it next to the hat. 

“What’s this?” Tim asks, picking it up. 

“It’s safe,” she says, not answering his question, “but I would wait to look at it until you have at least a couple of free hours.”

With that, she deftly maneuvers herself around and wheels to the door, situating herself to the side as she pulls it open. 

She looks back and smiles gently. “You’re a good man, Tim, and you do good work. But if the statement you gave us is anything to go by, I think you need to take another look at what happened that night. Don’t let your nightmares become your reality.”

Three hours later, the Traveler’s Corner is closed for the evening and Tim sits in front of his laptop upstairs, the flash drive’s contents pulled up on his screen. He looks at Harley Quinn’s face, the video paused, before he presses play. When the interview is done, Tim puts his head in his hands and, for the first time since Aunt B fell to the ground in front of him, allows himself to cry.

~~

**[blocked number]** : (14:42)  _ Complications with chosen treatment. Stasis successfully reestablished. No ill effects discovered from attempt. Preparing primary alternate treatment. Inform me if you need anything and it will be provided. _

~~

**January 22nd**

It’s almost been a month and the upcoming anniversary looms over Tim like a shroud, ever-present and threatening. When the ceiling of the shop starts to seem like it will actually collapse on top of him, Tim changes into his running gear and locks the front door behind him.

He’s just passed the docks when Dick slides in beside him, easily keeping pace with Tim’s steady jog despite the bag and strap draped across his torso. They run in silence. Tim, though he couldn’t say why, is okay with Dick being there. He’s tired and the slightest bit annoyed, but the numbness he felt with the others is gone.

A half-mile down the boardwalk, they turn off back onto the city streets. It’s quiet until Dick suddenly trips, a muffled cough escaping him. Slightly concerned, Tim glances over, only for Dick to wave him off. They pass a damaged light pole and Dick shakes his head with a grin. 

“Just saw something funny.”

“If you say so,” Tim says dubiously.

By the time they’ve circled back to Traveler’s Corner, Tim has worked up a decent sweat and Dick still looks fresh as a daisy. It’s immensely irritating and Tim welcomes the simple and uncomplicated emotion. Tim runs multiple times a week, but he supposes leaping across rooftops and catching bad guys might be better cardio.Dick goes down to one knee and Tim sees that his shoelaces have come untied. 

“How are you?” Dick asks, grabbing the loose laces and knotting them tightly.

“I don’t really feel like talking about it,” Tim answers truthfully. The video had been hard to watch, even harder to hear how the plan had been developed, how Harley Quinn had noticed Tim’s oddly consistently interactions with the Wayne kids and then Bruce’s multiple visits to the shop and drawn the connection. Until then, the plan had been a fancy that would have gone nowhere. Knowing that Batman would get involved made it an irresistible plot. It made sense in a horrible way. Tim had figured out Batman’s identity as a child – and whatever else Harley Quinn might be, she certainly wasn’t stupid. What that means for the Bats, Tim doesn’t know.

Dicks stands back and nods. “That’s fair. Is there anything that I can do to help?”

For the first time, Tim actually stops and thinks about it. Joyce would tell him to reach out he knows, would encourage it, but Tim…

He can’t trust the Bats right now. Maybe it’s petty or childish, but he can’t forgive himself for getting so close to a group of vigilantes that someone was able to use that relationship to hurt his aunt, one of the last parts of his family left. Logically, he knows it wasn’t the Bats’ fault that things happened the way they did, that they weren’t negligent in their work or actions. They might even have beat themselves up for the slip.

But still, he just can’t.

So he shakes his head. “No. And I appreciate the offer, but I’d really rather you all just…do your own thing for now. Away from me.” 

Dick looks at him carefully before nodding. “Okay. I’ll keep my distance if that’s what you want,” his mouth twists with humor, “but I can’t guarantee anything about the rest of my siblings, you know.”

“I’m well aware of that,” Tim says dryly.

Dick rubs the back of his neck, offering a sheepish grin. “Oh,” he says suddenly, unzipping his bag and fumbling through it, “random question: Do you like Shakespeare?”

Confused at the change in subject, Tim nods. “Yeah, I guess. Why?”

A worn copy of  _ Twelfth Night  _ emerges from the bag and Dick hands it to him with a small smile and Tim doesn’t know what’s going on with the Bat siblings, but they can’t keep  _ doing  _ this.

“Dick – ”

“I know, this is a special copy,” Dick interrupts, “but it turns out that I got new one for Christmas this year, with an inscription and everything.” He presses the book into Tim’s hands forcefully and Tim takes it, the only other option being to let it fall to the ground. “So don’t worry about it. You can keep it as long as you want.”

Tim doesn’t want it at all. “You can’t – ”

Dick puts his hands up and bounces back. “Sorry, gotta run! Couple of things I need to get done before the sun sets.” The last thing Tim sees is the bright flash of his teeth before the other man is up the block and gone.

Tim grinds his teeth and fumes, the book clutched in his hand. 

That evening, despite himself, he sits down on his couch, opens the book, and slowly, inch by inch, relaxes as he lets himself be drawn into the comedic drama of Viola and Orsino. 

He still ignores the inscription on the inside cover. 

When he’s done, the book is placed on a small table in Tim’s office next to the first aid kit, the lug nuts, and the police cap. None of them have disappeared and Tim doesn’t know why.

~~

**[blocked number]** : (14:42)  _ Secondary treatment plan in place. Will update following procedure attempt. Inform me if you need anything and it will be provided. _

~~

**January 28th**

Dick’s warning about his ability to control his siblings is proven correct less than a week later.

When Damian sits down across the table, it’s been a tough day and Tim doesn’t have the energy to be surprised. After multiple emotionally compromised customers, he’d gone up to his kitchen only to realize his fridge and freezer were both on their last leg in terms of consumable products. Going to the grocery store wasn’t an option – he doubts he’d have the mental capacity to get it done without forgetting half of his list – so he’d made his way to a restaurant and sat down with a solid  _ thump _ . He’s barely keeping himself awake at this point and the numbness has returned with a vengeance.

Tim looks at Damian tiredly. “Didn’t we already do this, this crashing my dinner business?” 

“Yes,” Damian answers frankly, “but I did not think approaching your store would be an appropriate meeting place given the request of privacy you made to the others.”

“…So instead, you’re joining me for dinner. Uninvited.” 

Damian blanches a bit, but recovers quickly. “Perhaps this is also not the best method – ”

“You think?” Tim mutters, looking over the menu. 

“ – however, as I will cover the cost of the meal this time, I believe that will satisfy the debt between us for the previous meeting.”

There is a serious lack of social skills being demonstrated at this moment that at any other time Tim might find hilarious, but currently finds exhausting and honestly, kind of vexing. There’s something about the youngest Wayne that manages to set Tim’s teeth on edge. That he clearly knew about Tim’s request for distance and ignored it is also not working in his favor. Is a free meal even worth it?

Unfortunately, yes. A free meal is always worth it.

“Fine,” Tim sighs, “you can stay.”

When the waitress appears, Damian carefully says, “Could we get two waters? Please.” He pauses and then adds, “And some breadsticks.”

She looks at him with bemusement, but gamely jots the request down. “Anything else?”

“No. Thank you.” 

After she leaves, Damian looks at Tim expectantly, as if waiting for something.

“…Yes?” Tim says, after the pause begins encroaching on awkwardness.

Damian huffs. He purses his lips and looks at Tim more closely, uncomfortably so, as if there’s something written on Tim’s face only he can see. Then he leans back in his chair and flatly observes, “Tch. You are not dealing with the events of a month ago.” 

A spark of anger flares to life in Tim’s chest, sending adrenaline through his sleepy veins, and he bites out, “My aunt still might die, so no, I’m not dealing well with that, like any  _ normal  _ person would.”

Damian taps the table impatiently. “You misunderstand, I said you are not dealing with the events, period. The appropriateness of your reaction is irrelevant.”

Tim bites the inside of his cheek, hard, to stop himself from letting out some choice words. “What, are you a  _ psychologist  _ now?”

“You are blaming yourself for something you did not do out of a misplaced sense of guilt,” Damian states, brushing off the implied insult. “I have intimate knowledge of this coping mechanism and, as Todd would say, it is ‘total bullshit.’ It is also an unconstructive way to address the issues that created the problem and hampers any steps that might be taken toward resolution of said problem. That is what Gordon said,” he tacks on, helpfully proving that his sudden insight into the human brain is completely secondhand.

It still pisses Tim off. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Pushing back his chair, Tim goes to stand, but Damian glares at him with such force that Tim almost falls back into his chair in reaction.

“You are being rude,” Damian hisses, “and the wait staff is returning with breadsticks. Sit  _ down _ .”

And Tim does sit down because for a brief moment, he could have sworn his mother rose from the grave and possessed the youngest Wayne in order to instruct him on proper public behavior. It’s terrifying. 

The breadsticks are delicious though. 

Damian orders for both of them, just as Tim did the time before, and Tim realizes that sitting here with Baby Wayne is probably the most awake he’s felt in the past month. He doesn’t know what that means. When the waitress has left again, Damian leans back in his chair and purses his lips, eyes moving over Tim’s face with an expression of concentration that quickly morphs into disdain.

“You are not well.”

Obviously not. That was months ago, before his world was shaken so violently he can hardly recognize it as the same dimension, before his quiet surety in place in that world was upended by a series of events so convoluted even  _ he  _ can’t determine how they match up.

However, it is humbling to have it be noticed, especially since, given the way Damian’s eyes linger on his cheeks and eyes, the physical toll is more apparent than he hoped. Despite a good amount of the nausea subsiding in the past two weeks, he still finds it difficult to eat when he’s not hungry. He’s definitely lost more weight than he should. The past few nights have seen a surge in nightmares, inconvenient when he’s just starting to sleep with any regularity, and the circles under his eyes are making a strong push for raccoon level. 

Tim looks again at the youngest Wayne, putting aside his frustration, and realizes that the disdain on the teenager’s face can’t hide the worry in his eyes. Tim’s heart, the walled-up thing it is, softens.

“Damian,” Tim says, well aware it is the first time he’s really called the teen by his given name, “you didn’t come here to tell me something we both already know. You wouldn’t waste your time on an errand for one of your teammates and I… believe your father wouldn’t delegate a message if he needed to deliver it to me. What do you  _ want _ ?”

At last, a crack appears in Damian’s scowling facade and he turns his face away, looking out a nearby window. Eventually, he takes a deep breath through his nose.

“When we last spoke - privately,” he clarifies with an angrily uncomfortable glance, “you made statements that had…some value, regarding my manner of conduct. I appreciated the straightforward way in which you imparted your observations and have been working to make appropriate adjustments to my interactions. I wanted to express…gratitude for your advice.”

Tim’s first reaction is to brush the thanks off, but then he notices the blush rising on Damian’s cheeks. Instead, he offers a sincere, if quiet, “You’re welcome.” 

Damian coughs and says, “Yes, well, that was mostly what I came to say. However,” he adds, embarrassment losing out to frustrated concern disguised as arrogance, “you would not offer such insight now. You are lost in the waiting.” The last phrase is said almost as a proverb, and it sticks in Tim’s mind.

Tim blinks at him. “I wasn’t really asking for advice.” Especially not from a teenage vigilante with possibly the weirdest upbringing he’s ever been unable to confirm.

Damian snorts, notes, “You clearly need it,” and then gives a terrifyingly Bruce Wayne-like smile to the waitress as their food arrives. 

Silence seems far easier than attempting to argue, and the food - manicotti for Tim and gnocchi for Damian - is wonderful. It would be a shame to not give it his full attention and appreciation. 

This time, Damian glares heatedly and violently shoves his credit card into the waitress’s hand immediately, allowing Tim no opportunity to sneak around him and pay (as if Tim even has the inclination after having his meal crashed for the second time). When it’s time to leave, Tim puts on his jacket as slowly as he feels he can get away with, finding vindictive pleasure in the impatient tapping of Damian’s fingers against his arm. However, Tim is only a few feet outside the restaurant entrance, cold wind blowing in his face, when Damian spins around suddenly, glaring and holding something in his hands that he must have somehow secreted away in his jacket.

“Here,” Damian says, shoving a wrapped package into Tim’s hands, “you can have this back.”

“What - ” He tears open the paper right there because he has a suspicion that he quickly realizes is correct. “Look,” he growls, holding up the T-shirt that Damian had bought at Traveler’s Corner months ago, “you bought this, this is  _ yours _ , why are you giving this to me? In fact, why are  _ all  _ of you giving me your stuff?!” People don’t return their items from Traveler’s Corner. It doesn’t  _ happen _ .

Damian frowns, and then says as if it’s obvious, “Well, they are no longer needed.”

Then he awkwardly pats Tim’s arm, grimacing, and walks away, leaving Tim with a T-shirt in his hand and questions that no one will answer.

~~

**[blocked number]** : (14:42)  _ She’s awake.  _

~~

**February 1st**

Beaming to the Watchtower is different than walking through Zatanna’s portal, but, as she explains, portals are a last resort for time sensitive problems. Beaming is much more efficient. Tim shivers when he rematerializes, rubbing at the goosebumps that spring up on his arms. Batman is nowhere to be seen. Zatanna guides him through the halls to the medbay, giving a small smile as she ushers him inside, saying a quiet, “Take your time,” before leaving Tim alone. He walks along the row of empty beds until he reaches the end and stops.

After a month of stasis, Tim figured there wouldn’t be that big a difference in how Aunt B looked. Stasis implies no metabolic processes occurring to use up the body’s fixed resources, and he had taken some small amount of comfort in the knowledge that Aunt B wasn’t feeling the pain that had been tearing her apart before they put her under. That makes the sight of her unusually thin frame is not only horrifying, but shocking. Her normally pale skin is almost translucent, the blue veins starkly prominent. With her eyes shut, it’s all too easy to see the specter of death hanging over the bed.

He didn’t prepare himself well enough for this.

“How long are you going to stand there?” Aunt B’s voice is weak, but her gaze is sharp from the one eyes she cracks open, somehow managing to convey the same humorous exasperation that characterized so much of his time with her.

“As long as it takes,” Tim says, stepping forward and sinking down into the chair next to her bed. He takes her hand gently and can’t shake the feeling that if he holds it too tight, it might break. 

“Did you open your gift?” she asks.

He had. Two weeks after she was put into stasis, he had finally mustered the will to go back to Drake Industries. In her office, tucked away in the special drawer where she used to hide candy to hand out to a younger Tim and the interns, was a smallish box. In the box, there was a photo album, filled with pictures he had never seen before. Pictures of his parents when they were young, laughing and smiling, two strangers that he never had a chance to meet. Scattered throughout the years, Aunt B made few appearances, and Tim realized that she must have been the photographer on their adventures, snapping photos for posterity, not knowing that one day her book would be one of the only tenuous connections left to her best friends. 

And she decided to give it to Tim.

“I did,” he says quietly.

“Did you like it?”

Like it? As if that is even in question. “It was  _ beautiful _ , Aunt B. I  _ loved _ it.”

She smiles, looking at him with unbearable fondness. “That’s good. I thought you would.”

He soaks in her smile, almost not believing it’s real. Then he looks down.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers eventually, eyes fixed on their hands. He can’t bring himself to look at her face, the shame that had lain dormant during the past five weeks flaring to life with uncompromising force.

Her brow furrows slightly. “For what?”

The right words won’t come together so he says what he feels is closest to the truth. “For putting you in danger. The Joker wouldn’t have come after you if he didn’t know I was in contact with Batman. I made you a target and I almost - ” He cuts off, unable to say it.

_ I almost got you killed. I might as well have killed you myself. _

Aunt B looks at him, silent and solemn, taking in his words. Then Tim startles as she wheezes, as close to laughter as she can get in her fragile state. Tim stares at her.

“My sweet, wonderful,  _ stupid  _ boy. I’ve been a target of people for  _ years _ . The Joker wasn’t the first person to try and steal my research for horrible things, you know.”

What.

“I always knew announcing to the public the nanomedicine initiative was a risk,” she continues, her voice hoarse. “But to have young people from universities come and join the project, I needed to make the general concept known in the wider field. Tiffany tells me a good number of students in her program started looking into more practical uses for their technology once they heard about our work, some even looking into the medical field. Isn’t that wonderful? It wouldn’t happen if our research topics weren’t publically available.” 

Her words don’t compute. “You knew that you would be targeted…and you did it anyway?”

“Of course,” she says simply. 

“But…” Why would she put herself in that position? 

She smiles weakly at him, like she knows what he’s thinking. “Sometimes you have to decide if the risks are worth it, Tim. I decided a long time ago that the good I could do sharing myself and my research with people is worth the pain that might come with it, and there have been times when the pain was almost unbearable.” Her smiles fades, eyes distant. “Losing your parents… I almost buried myself in my research after that.” Then her eyes refocus and she looks at him piercingly. “But I had more to offer the world than my back.” 

Tim can’t think of anything to say to that. 

Gently, she squeezes his hand. “I’ve been afraid for a long time that you would do the same as me. Bad people will do bad things, Timothy,” she says, a lifetime of experience heavy in her voice. “Do not blame the good for the actions of the evil. All we can do is try to save who we can and stop those who would cause harm.”

Tim swallows roughly, guilt still resting heavy in his stomach like a stone. Still, maybe it cracks a bit because he feels somehow lighter, like Aunt B’s statement has chipped away at the guilt and anger and numbness that has accompanied Tim throughout her time in the Watchtower’s medbay. It’s not fixed, but finally there’s the glimmer of hope that it can be.

Aunt B yawns then, her eyes drooping. “Don’t stay too long,” she states drowsily, “I’m going to be doing more sleeping than anything else for the next few days.”

“I’ll make sure to get some fresh air,” Tim states, squeezing her hand softly.

She squeezes back with deceptive strength. “Tell those Bat friends of yours I said thank you.” She keeps hold of his hand even as he jerks in surprise. “I want them to know they did their best - I don’t blame them anymore than I blame you. Promise to let them know?”

“…Yeah. I promise.”

~~

**February 8th**

**[Timothy Drake]:** (14:43)  _ You said you would provide something if I needed it. Meet me on the shop roof tomorrow at 3am.  _

~~

At a quarter ‘til three, he puts on his jacket and scarf, grabs a thermos of coffee and two cups, and makes his way up his fire escape to the roof. There will be no blanket and pot of hot chocolate tonight. Tim still isn’t sure that Batman will even show up. 

The coffee steams as he pours it and he holds the mug close to his face, letting the warm chase away a bit of the chill that’s settled in his exposed skin. 

At 3:00am on the dot, a shiver races up Tim’s spine and a voice says behind him, “Mr. Drake.”

Tim doesn’t turn around. Instead, he reaches down and grabs the thermos from its place at his feet, juggling a bit with the empty mug and the half-empty one he’s been drinking from. It takes a couple seconds to get situated, but he manages a decent pour.

“Here,” he huffs, squeezing the thermos to his side with his forearm as it starts to slip, “come get this.”

The pause has an almost tangible  _ what-the-hell  _ feeling to it before a hand appears in his peripheral vision and he passes the mug over, breathing a sigh of relief as he grabs the thermos with his now free hand. Only then does he turn.

Batman is looking down at the mug, his mouth in a thin line. It’s hard to think of him as Bruce when you see him in the uniform, a figure so used to the darkness of Gotham that he wears it as his cloak. Tim studies him as he takes a sip, and only after that does the other man bring his own cup to his lips. They stand in silence, slowly drinking their coffee, looking out over the streets. 

“Aunt B wants to say thank you,” Tim eventually says. “She doesn’t blame you for what happened.”

A rustle of cloth follows his statement. “We made a mistake that she paid for. No thanks are necessary. If anything, we should apologize to her.” The words are curt, but the sincerity shines through even through the voice modulator.

Something that had been wound tight in Tim’s stomach eases at the admission. “Even so,” he says, and Batman nods his acceptance. 

When there are only dregs left in his mug, Tim grabs the thermos and pours himself another cup, silently offering it to Batman who accepts it and tops his own mug off. 

There’s a quiet companionship in the moment, uncomfortably easy if Tim is honest. While the others members of the Bat clan sought him out, the head of the family kept his distance, and even now it’s clear that he won’t push Tim for more information than he’s already given. If Tim had never reached out, he’s sure he never would have seen Batman again. 

“How do you do it?”

Something in the quirk of Batman’s mouth suggests surprise at the question. Fair enough, given that Tim isn’t even sure why he asked it. However, now that it’s out there, he desperately wants an answer from a person who he knows understands the agony and anger and  _ shame  _ that Tim’s been wrestling with for weeks, compounded by the fact that up until then, he was enjoying touching a world he had left behind.

The fact is, Tim isn’t even really sure what he’s asking. How do you watch your family knowingly put themselves in danger and not lock them away where they can be safe? How do you live with the knowledge that people have died because you weren’t fast enough or smart enough or strong enough? How do you bear the guilt that you  _ must  _ feel because Tim - he’s been  _ drowning  _ in it and Aunt B had died, he knows he never would have been able to forgive himself or any person that played a role in her death. 

For a moment, Tim is sure that he won’t get an answer, that the question, vague and expansive as it is, isn’t something that the other man is even  _ capable  _ of answering. Then, softly, a sigh echoes out from the voice modulator. 

“Barbara, blackout protocol.”

With a simultaneous humming noise, the nearby street lights all blink out, plunging the surrounding blocks into darkness. The only thing left is the ambient light from the sky, a dim glow from the moon peeking through the clouds. If Tim had his camera right now, he wouldn’t be able to make out any distinguishing features of anyone on the roof. Blackout protocol, indeed.

Then, Batman does the unthinkable. He reaches behind his neck, does something that releases a clicking sound, and pulls up and forward. The cowl comes off and Bruce Wayne stands on Tim’s roof, suited it up for a night of vigilante justice with his face bare to the night sky. Tim wonders if he feels vulnerable like that. Something of his thoughts must show on his face because Bruce’s lips quirk up and he says, “I take precautions.” 

“That’s…good.” Would that Tim had thought of precautions back before any of this started. 

Bruce looks at him, blank-faced, and then lets out a breath, not enough to be a sigh, but likely as close as Batman comes. “Do you remember,” he says, “when we talked in your shop, about Batman bringing kids into vigilante work?”

Tim nods. He had - not defended, but understood that decision. Or rather, he had defended the right of the younger Bats to make that decision and be adequately prepared for what it might bring. Part of him still agrees with that. 

Another part pictures the blood on the DI laboratory floor evidence of Aunt B’s hemorrhaging, and shudders in terror.

Bruce runs a hand through his hair, face drawn and tired. “I should have fought harder to keep them from this life, from all the danger it brings. But they wouldn’t hear differently and so I trained them, trained them as hard and as thoroughly as I was trained myself and  _ prayed  _ that they would never have to face the worst of what was out there, that I could at least protect them from that. And I failed.” 

Tim knows that they both think of Jason, and Tim - Aunt B’s broken body in the medbay bed fills his mind. 

Bruce breathes in slowly, looking up at the Gotham smog. “A wise young man once told me that when you try so hard to help, the suffering is even more painful when you fail.”

Tim’s head jerks to the left and his eyes widen as he stares at the other man in disbelief. 

Bruce’s eyes remained fixed on the sky. “I am… _ intimately  _ aware of this, you might say.”

“I keep picturing it,” Tim says, and even now that Aunt B’s prognosis looks okay, the visions still find him in his waking hours and dreams. “Does it go away?”

Bruce tilts his head and for a moment, Tim can see Jason so clearly in him it’s frightening. “Sometimes. Some things might stay with you forever though.” 

The very idea sends a spike of fear through Tim’s heart. “Forever?”

A nod. “If you care enough.”

Tim looks at Bruce in his Batman uniform, barely visible in the gloom, a man who has walked out into the night for decades. He thinks of the number of people that the other man must have encountered throughout the years, the amount of muggings and beatings and murders he must have interrupted. He thinks of the ones that Batman must have been too late to save. “You don’t forget.”

“No,” Bruce admits, shaking his head. “I don’t forget. I don’t  _ allow  _ myself to forget.”

“Then how can you keep doing it?” Tim asks, throwing his arm out to encompass the Gotham buildings that seems to glow in the light fog, yellow and aged incandescent lights scattered haphazardly through the maze of alleys and streets. “How do you keep going out there  _ knowing  _ that you’ll fail again and that it’ll never go away?”

“Because they need me.” Bruce states it like a revelation, like a secret. 

Finally, Bruce turns his gaze from the heavens and meets Tim’s eyes. 

“You know what that’s like.”

For a second, Tim doesn’t understand what Bruce is talking about. Then he thinks back to the five purchases sitting on that stupid bench in his office, the little items that Traveler’s Corner found for the younger members of the Bat family, each one specifically needed for some purpose that he will likely never know. 

The woman with her grandmother’s teapot; the child with the diary; the man with a signed basketball. How many people has he touched in the five years he’s owned Traveler’s Corner and how many in the years before that? Did they truly need him? Maybe. Maybe he understands what Bruce means more than he would like to admit.

Bruce studies his face and nods. “Sometimes we need to be reminded of why we do what we do.” 

With that, he throws back the rest of his coffee with a grimace. It must have gone cold. Then he hands the mug over to Tim who takes it, a bit baffled at the sudden change in temperment. The cowl goes back on, a couple quick snaps securing it in place and Tim expects that Bruce will go full Batman and disappear into the night sky, but instead, he turns to Tim and hesitates.

“The kids are…fond of you,” he says haltingly. “I think they would enjoy it if you visited sometime.” He pauses. “I would enjoy it, too.” Then the awkwardness fades and Bruce smiles.

It’s the real smile; the one that Tim saw when he was a child that disappeared into a mask that the world accepted as true. It’s Batman and it’s Bruce Wayne. It’s the stranger that lived in the sad house next door and the terrifying,  _ amazing _ figure that Tim followed through the alleyways and up the firescapes of Gotham City. It’s the smile of the man that young Tim wanted to know and adult Tim thinks might share the twists and turns that characterize his thought process.

It…could be nice, to spend time with someone like that.

“I might just do that.”

Tim still doesn’t know why Bruce Wayne needs Timothy Drake. 

Maybe it’s okay. He doesn’t know when Traveler’s Corner will call him away to a new town or city that is full of people who need to be reminded of who they are, but for now?

They have time.

 

And he has more to offer the world than his back.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer that Tim's reaction to his depression and guilt is largely based off my own experiences battling those feelings so if you're wondering why he was characterized that way *jazz hands* that's why!
> 
> This is the last chapter-chapter with epilogue to follow and it's giving me feels so I'm gonna save my emotional spiel for the epilogue (which is basically done except for some fine tuning). Feel free to leave any thoughts or comments! I love hearing from y'all and reading your comments makes my day ^_^


	16. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An epilogue and an introduction.

_ Dear Tim, _

_ It’s been a while since I sent you one of these, hasn’t it? But not everyday is your birthday! And yes, I know that it technically isn’t your birthday yet. I might be getting older, but I’m not senile yet. You’re getting this a bit in advance because if I know you, you’ll try to wiggle out of your party if I don’t guilt you into coming. Alfred made you a cake, sweetheart. You’re coming if I have to drag you there myself. _

_ Now I’m going to say something a bit emotional, so brace yourself (I know you get about  _ _ feelings _ _ , dear.) _

_ If not in name, then in spirit you are my grandson, and I could not have been blessed with one more intelligent, caring, and dedicated. I am so proud of you and I love you very much.  _

_ Happy Birthday, sweetheart! See you soon! _

_ Joyce _

~~

Tim takes a deep breath as he opens his window, smiling at the hint of green things growing mixed in with the smog carried upon the breeze. It’s faint, but unmistakable all the same.

Spring has finally arrived in Gotham City.

A  _ ding _ comes from his phone and he grabs it as he heads downstairs, checking over the truly outrageous number of messages that have been popping up on his screen all morning. Tim’s had to up his data plan. He’s never had much use for texting before (or at least no one to really text with) and he’s still getting used to responding on an acceptable time frame. It drives Dick and Stephanie  _ crazy _ .

The stream of texts from Dick fill the screen, asking if he’ll be at the manor tonight, what movie he wants to watch, what snacks he wants them to get, finishing by telling him not to forget his camera  _ or else _ . Tim had been surprised when the oldest of Bruce’s surrogate kids cornered him on his first visit to the manor as an invited guest instead of an interloper and asked if he really did photography like he’d told Bruce. When Tim confirmed that yes, he did in fact do photography and yes, he did take pictures of Batman and his first two Robins out on the town fighting crime that he still had in his possession, Dick had beamed with terrifying glee and asked if he took commissions.

Which is how Tim has found himself running around the Gotham nighttime like he hasn’t in years, doing his best to sneak candid photos of the Bat clan doing their vigilante work. It took two weeks for him to get caught, but now that the others are aware, they seem to have created a point system for how often they can catch him in the act. 

Their point counts are all very low. Tim apparently annoyingly proud.

He replies with a quick assurance that no, he won’t forget his camera and he’s feeling old school, has anyone seen ‘The Court Jester?’ Dick sends him back a number of emojis that make zero sense followed by a run of exclamation marks and a birthday cake and bottle of champagne. 

Dick is inordinately excited for Tim’s upcoming birthday, beaten out only by Stephanie who has decided that she’s going to plan not only a Bat family party for him, but a Drake Industries one as well. Aunt B and her have become frighteningly close since she was released from the Watchtower into a rehab center. The same rehab center that housed Joyce up until a few weeks ago. He can’t help but feel sorry for them. Aunt B isn’t any easier to deal with  _ and _ she’s still trying to run DI like nothing happened, despite the fact that she’s only just starting the walking portion of her rehab.

Patience has never been her strong suit.

Somehow she and Stephanie have managed to convince the center that she’ll do better after some time with family, so Aunt B will be there tonight, set up in her wheelchair with a bowl of plain, unsalted popcorn that she will complain is unnecessary the entire evening despite the strict diet she’s on until the doctors feel her stomach can handle increased sodium intake. It’ll be nice to see her outside of a hospital bed and actually enjoying herself. 

He shoots off a quick text at the bottom of the stairs.

**[Timothy Drake]** (08:14)  _ You’re going to be there tonight, right? _

**[blocked number]** (08:14)  _ I believe a revolt would ensue if I wasn’t. Happy Birthday, Tim. _

Tim smiles down at the screen, a warm pulse of amusement in his chest. 

When he looks up from his phone, he stops dead in his tracks. 

Traveler’s Corner is…bare. The walls are a bland beige with no decoration except the shelves themselves, and even they would consider boring by a generous measure. The items that fill them are the same as usual, but blunted somehow, dull.

Tim’s gaze moves across the vaguely familiar set-up to the entrance. There’s a sign on the front window. 

Tim pulls out a book - a biography this time - and settles in to wait. He feels each minute pass, time suddenly moving sluggishly as the sunlight creeps across the floor like molasses. He waits maybe an hour, maybe more, before a shiver races up his spine, leaving something oddly like joy in its wake.

The front door to the shop opens and Tim looks up from the counter and closes his book, a well-practiced smile stretching across his face. “Welcome to the Traveler’s Corner. Can I help you with anything?” he asks. The words, still, as always, are as familiar as breathing. 

A young woman looks back at him. 

She is small, this woman, tiny and compact and as she steps forward, Tim feels as if he’s watching a stream in motion, flowing smoothly from point to point through the air. Tim recognizes not the clothes themselves, but the type of clothes, the kind that are secondhand and carefully cared for, the kind that you keep because there’s no easy way to replace them and no guarantee that something else will come along. Her hair is dark, framing a pale face set with dark almond-shaped eyes that flicker quickly around the room before settling back on Tim, curious and sharp and soft all at once. 

“I - ”

She cuts off, frowning. Then she shakes her head and gestures to the shelves and makes a questioning gesture. 

Tim smiles softly. “Why don’t you take a look around and see if you find anything you like. I’ll be right here if you need any assistance.”

She looks at him with a familiar tilt of her head and smiles back at him, nodding. As she walks between the sparse and dull shelves, Tim carefully doesn’t watch her, letting her take her time without pressure. 

When she finally wanders out from the shelves, there’s a small frown on her face and she gestures to them as she haltingly says, “No...not…”

After a moment, Tim asks, “You didn’t find anything?”

She nods, frustration and resignation written in the lines of her mouth. Tim has never been active in the Deaf community, but he’s picked up a bit of sign language here and there, so he points to her before extending his pointer fingers and moving them in circles in front of his chest. “Do you sign?” he asks. 

“No,” she says, shaking her head, “I - ” She huffs, gesturing to his body up and down. “Talk.”

“Talk?” he says, looking down at himself. “I’m sorry,” he says as he looks up, “I don’t think I understand.”

She raises her eyebrows before dancing a little, much to his bemusement, and then saying emphatically, “ _ Talk _ .”

It takes him a moment to realize, but eventually the metaphorical light bulb goes off. “Oh, no sign language, but you use body movements.”

She tilts her head and scrunches up her face, but gives a shallow nod. Close enough then. 

Tim looks at her carefully, at her careworn clothes and tired eyes, and his eyes drift to the sign in the window. He still hasn’t read it, but then again, he doesn’t really need to. He knows what’s written there - it was burned into his memory when he was a teenager trying to escape his mother’s hovering, walking into a random store with no idea that it would be the greatest gift he’d ever receive, one that would lead him to a life so much fuller than he ever would have imagined. 

So Tim, heart full, takes a deep breath and asks her the same question Joyce asked him so long ago. “What’s your name?”

She touches her chest, and says clearly, proudly, “Cassandra.”

“Well, Cassandra,” he says, smiling at her warmly, “how would you feel about a new job?”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally done, almost six months to the day! When I started this story I had no job and thought that I might as well put the start of this story out there because nothing else seemed to be working. Now I not only have a job, but I've rediscovered why I enjoyed writing in the first place: to create worlds and uncover how characters live in them. Timothy Drake has long been one of my favorite characters and I hope that in a small way I was able to do him justice.
> 
> To all the people who have read this story, to all the kudos-er and commenters, thank you so much for the time you spent and the encouragement you gave me. When I was out of inspiration or didn't know what was coming next, you gave me ideas and reminded me of the different facets of Tim Drake's character. You were the best part of this process. 
> 
> So long for now, everyone! May you each find your own Traveler's Corner and may you each be a Joyce or Tim when the time comes!
> 
> (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧♡

**Author's Note:**

> It has been, uh, a long time since I posted anything on AO3. I've suffered from a lot of writer's block and disappointment with job hunting that I haven't had the motivation. But you know what, I figured that I'll never get any better if I never actually write anything so here we are! I love the DC universe, I love the characters, and I especially love Timothy Drake. So this is borne of that enjoyment in the hopes that I can write something worth reading. I hope you enjoy it!


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